Black Cloud
by yulchii
Summary: Where he didn't remember and then suddenly did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

 **Warnings:** Language, Reborn, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings

 **Rating:** T

 **Word Count:** 2895

 **Author's Note:** It's my birthday. Yay. I don't know what to think about it. I have differing feelings about this fic but oh well. I found it on my phone. Wrote this during my friend's birthday party, I was pretty drunk soo... Yeah. Don't know if it will be continued because I have no idea what to do with this one. I have another fic from this party (Bleach one) but I will think about posting it for now. If you see any mistakes, kindly point them out to me.

 **(** This chapter was edited. A little bit. (22.12.2015) **)**

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 **Chapter 1**

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Skull didn't remember his whole life. He woke up one day on a beach near the sea, not remembering a thing from his past. There were bits and pieces that flitted through his mind when prompted by something, like when he first saw a motorbike. His first thought was _I want that_. His second was some vague mix of jealousy, resentment and love. He didn't know why he felt like that but for some reason a smell of a wet dog came to mind.

He decided that since he wanted the thing he _would get one_.

He walked away from the shore in some random direction and after a few hours, arrived in a small village, empty and abandoned a long time ago. It was burned, he concluded after taking a long look at his surroundings, although not all of it was. There were some small houses that escaped from the fire that burned everything else down.

It was in one of these houses that he found some useful things such as clothes (although from a rougher material than what his skin was used to, he discovered soon, scratching at himself and generally feeling uncomfortable) and water (although it was ice cold and not suitable for drinking. He bathed in it and drank it anyway, desperate times call for desperate measures).

He discovered that he rather preferred not to be in the same room as a large gathering of water when he poured some into the bathtub (erratic breathing, sweating, rabbit fast pulse, shaking hands, weak knees, dizziness, all the signs of panic attack, he tripped backwards and smashed his head into the floor, blood was spilled from it and he needed to use the towels he found in the bathroom to stop the bleeding).

So after that particular event, he slowly poured some water into a bowl and stood in an empty bathtub, systematically pouring the liquid on himself, washing all the grime and dirt his body accumulated over his journey.

And when he got rid of the rags (robes those were robes, whispered his subconscious) he was wearing from his time at the beach and was cleaning himself up, he saw his body for the first time. It was slim, a little too slim, with ribs that were showing and limbs that were all lithe muscle and little to no fat. There were also some gashes and scratches and even a few hand-shaped bruises on his body.

It was definitely concerning but he focused on his limbs, more specifically, his inner left forearm. There was a washed-out tattoo there, of a snake and a skull and a word flashed through his mind's eye, Voldemort. Well, it was a little cliche but it was all he had to go on so he took _skull_ , added _demort_ and he had a new name. Skull de Mort. Skull of the Death.

Soon, he left behind the half-burned village and moved on, eventually ending up in a circus. Without a ticket, with ill-fitting clothes and eating a stolen hotdog, the workers thought him another teenage runaway, told him that since he was sixteen (they guessed), they would let him stay and feed him if he worked for it.

That was how he started his journey as a stuntman. Eventually, after earning quite a sum of money, he bought himself his first motorcycle and suffice to say, the circus suddenly become much more popular. He learned quickly what was what and after getting some initial help from his colleagues and fiddling with the machine himself, he figured out the rest and went from there.

There were other things he figured out as he went. For example, he was fluent in quite a few languages, for example French, Italian, Russian, Latin plus some Japanese (he could hold a conversation alright but he couldn't read any of their weird writings, because _three_ alphabets, who needs so much? _why_? for what purpose?) and traditional Chinese (spoken only, too).

He came to the conclusion that he had a rich family, for them to hire so much tutors or he had a family that could speak in many languages. The former was most likely. And he wouldn't like to start pointing fingers but with the injuries he was currently covered in and some flashes of memories ("Behave yourself, like the heir of the most ancient and noble House or I will blast you out of the family like that disgrace of your bro-!" " _Bow_ , you imbecile of a boy!" "You will serve him or you will experience the pain of _Cruc_ -!"), he was inclined to believe that his family was involved in some way. _Negative_ way.

As time went on in the circus, Skull developed his own personality. It was mostly based on everything that was going on around him. His fame needed someone that was boisterous, loud and proud. He thought that sometimes he overreacted and was too emotional but he had no way of checking if his old personality was similar to the front he was presenting (besides an uncomfortable feeling curling in his stomach every time he needed to talk loudly for his audience and generally be a showman, he silently thought that in the past he was a quiet and withdrawn person by nature but now he simply could not return to that because he was a stuntman and needed to be _loud_ and _draw attention_ ).

But he found out something else. He was quite durable and finding this out turned out to be a painful and terrifying experience. The first time, everyone was relived enough that they overlooked it. The second, they called him lucky. But after the third time he stood up after a fall from his bike that should have broken his neck or his spine or _something_ , with only a slight stumble and a thumbs up to show he was okay, they regarded him with slightly more wariness and morbid curiosity.

He was quickly dubbed as Immortal Skull, the One Hated by Grim Reaper.

That was when the Man in Checkered Hat came and his whole world turned upside down.

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His first meeting with the Strongest Seven was manageable. They were all strangers and so they didn't interact much. Besides Luce (who gave out cookies and tea and coffee and wasn't she just amazing) but that woman was exceptional, different from everyone else because she was the only one of them who was a boss. A Mafia boss. Skull, on the other hand, was the only one not involved in any shady dealings or in Mafia in general. That made him a civilian and therefore, weaker and an easy picking. The fact that he didn't have any idea when they were talking about Flames and Dying Wills made everything worse. He was uninformed and the weakest because he couldn't access his own Flames, couldn't even say what Flames he had, he was going blind. He didn't ask anybody because he knew how they would react (Reborn - scornful and belittling, Fon - serene as ever, hiding behind a peaceful smile, Lal - dismissive and cold, Verde - clinically detached, not even sparing him a glance, Luce - apologetic and sympathetic wasn't something he wanted from anybody and Viper... would probably demand money and that wouldn't be such a bad idea. He should totally ask Viper for some help).

Checkerface gave them missions and Skull generally tried not to make a mess and stay out of everyone's way. Because as much as his pride hurt at that, he knew when to back down and let experts do their work. Even if he muttered bitterly every time they disregarded him and didn't include him in any planning because he was, in their opinion, too stupid (something dangerous stirred in him at that, he was many things and inexperienced in everything Mafia related was one of them but he took pride in his intelligence, he wasn't stupid, unfortunately every time he made a sharp retort, he was punished quite harshly - Reborn beat him down ("You need to build immunity and learn how to fight eventually") or shoot at him ("Dodging practice"). And Luce who was usually appalled at these practices was quickly appeased with Reborn's silver tongue ("He needs to learn if he wants to survive, Luce").

And something in Skull was telling him that he should try to convince Luce that it was madness and that Reborn was simply a sadist who enjoyed seeing others in pain but he wasn't a speaker, he was like a snake (slithering snakes, a green and silver banner, _slitherslitherslither_ , where did he hear that before?), who was bidding his time and waiting to strike.

He carefully catalogued every scrap of information he scavenged about the other six and while it wasn't much (Reborn, Italian, Strongest Hitman in the World, formerly known as Renato Sinclair, Sun, uses guns, womanizer, arrogant, strong, favorite drink espresso. Lal Mirch, the Rain, Italian probably, former leader and an instructor at COMSUBIN, a no-nonsense type of woman, easily irritated. Fon, the Storm, was a martial arts specialist, peaceful and kind, oolong tea was his favorite drink, he was born in China and worked for the Triads. Verde, the Lightning, was a scientist from France, said to be the next DaVinci, with cold personality and interested only in his research. Viper, the Mist, was greedy and tended to charge high prices for his services, his favorite drink was strawberry milk. Luce was the Eight Giglio Nero Boss, the Sky, all-encompassing and accepting and understanding. She was also quite blind to the faults of her favourites - Reborn (no, he wasn't bitter, _at all_ ) and quite deaf to the hurt of the some others - himself. She was also quite pregnant and despite her ignorance to the abuse others heaped up on him (he didn't need help, he wasn't helpless or weak enough to need help, especially from a pregnant woman), he still quite liked her, she actually took third place when it came to the other six of the Strongest (first was Viper, then Fon).

After asking and paying Viper for his time and patience, he learned more about Flames and found out that he himself was a Cloud and a powerful one to boot. And after asking and paying some more, he started learning how to control these Flames.

Viper was a hard instructor but an efficient one. He was hard and praise came rarely if at all. But when Skull succeeded in accessing his flames and channeling them to his arms which erupted in brilliant purple flames he was reluctantly impressed and congratulated him. Skull felt warmth seep into his being and ignored the whispers in his head ("Mother, look what I did!" "Not now, don't you see I'm busy? Your brother could do that when he was two years younger than you! Get out of my sight and back to your room or you will taste _Cruciatus_ again!" ' _…I wanted to make you proud.'_ ).

Missions and training took much of his time. And then came the Fated Day and everything changed again.

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He behaved like a weak wimpy and petulant child because that was what everyone expected him to be. The strangers who thought him to be a real child and the other Arcobaleno, who thought him a pathetic waste of space. He behaved like that because he didn't remember the time when he was _important_ and _pureblood_ and _aristocrat_. He only remembered the After. There were some clues pointing to his wealthy childhood but after some memories of his family ("You are a Black, I forbid you from associating with dirty mudbloods! You will be punished for your insolence! Spitting in the face of your ancestors! Turning your back on the traditions followed in this House for years! Crucio!" "Straighten your back, do not hunch in on yourself like some mudblood! You are a proud so of Blacks!"), he was cheerful enough to hunch in and eat messily and do whatever he wanted and associate with whomever he wanted to.

Then, the Vongola Decimo broke the curse.

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Hands. Grasping at him and pulling him. Down. Into the water.

Air. He couldn't breathe. He needed-

Kreatcher. My friend.

Take it. Destroy it. Go.

Hands. Cold, so cold. The hands were cold and grey and they were pulling at him. The water was so cold. Those hands were in him.

He was in the water. He was drowning. He needed to-!

He woke up.

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The love of motorcycles was clearly a Black family thing, he thought hysterically, hand tugging at his abnormal hair in obvious distress and a nervous, half mad little laugh escaping his painted lips. He remembered sneering at his brother when he first saw him fiddling with the monstrous machines. He thought them loud, dirty and useless, like most things muggle and muggles themselves.

Now, though... Well.

He glanced through the open door of the bathroom into the corridor which lead to his messy living room. There were magazines about, pictures of, some parts and an _actual_ motorbike in there. It was horrifying. Both the mess and the actual machine and the _Muggleness_ that seemed to be present in the whole apartment. Regulus was horrified. Because he would rather be at _Grimmauld Place_ (even though he didn't especially like it, it _was_ home) than in a _Muggle's_ flat. The _devices_ around it were indication enough. For example, something that was like the pictures from his world but _wasn't_. There were sounds coming from it, people talking, music playing while the pictures were mute. He would have said that it was a painting but the scenery was changing and the figures that he could see, couldn't see _him_. The pureblood in him was disgusted and amused with their tries at imitating Magic. The schoolary wizard in him was fascinated by their ability to _do so_. The rational person, which he was, was uneasy at their progress and knowledge.

He shook his head and turned back around from his blank starring at the wall to the mirror.

He looked at his reflection and couldn't believe what he was seeing. He slowly examined his appearance for the third time.

His face looked... interesting, which was the only thing he could think of without insulting himself. He had purple lipstick smeared on his lips, eyeshadow of the same colour. There was also a teardrop under his eye and some piercings. On his face. His mother would have fainted. But first she would have cursed him (in words and with a wand) all the while screeching about removing him from the family tree. His father would have stood behind her and even though he wouldn't have said a word, his stare alone would have literally been throwing Avada Kedavras around like Dumbledore liked throwing around his blasted lemon drops.

His hair was a wild mess of purple locks, looking like it was styled with lots of spray and gel but it wasn't so. It wasn't a fashion statement or anything as silly. It just wouldn't lie flat. It reminded him of the bedhead Potter used to have when he forgot to tame his hair on some mornings. His mood lifted for a moment remembering Potter's face when he realized the state of his hair and ran to the Griffindor's dorm to fix it. Then his mood smashed and crashed and died a very quick death because _he doesn't look like Regulus Black but like a Muggle punk_. He mourned his eyes the most, though. Instead of the typical in Blacks silver (sometimes light blue), it was a striking shade of purple. Which glowed, a little. It was a little bit worrying, in all actuality. And depressing because his eyes have always been a point of pride in him because he was a Black (only Blacks have eyes like those, the colour like that of a distant star after which all of their family members were named, one only needed to look them in the eye to know that they were of the Most Noble and Ancient House and Regulus wasn't ashamed of his heritage).

It was his body but at the same time, not really. The Dark Mark was still there, a little blurred around the edges but there nontheless. His facial features didn't change in the slightest (except the piercings and band aids and some make up, covering scars) but the colour of his hair and eyes did.

And he was wearing a little too tight for his tastes (he was used to wizarding robes and loose shirts and flapping cloaks) but still surprisingly comfortable one piece biking jumpsuit. It was black, white and purple too. Plus gloves and high boots of the same colour scheme. He liked purple, it was his favourite colour (not every Slytherin is all about green and silver) but that was a little too much. He liked purple when it was stylish but throw too much and you just look like a colourblind person.

He looked like a punk, he thought miserably, pulling at the chain linking his lip to his ear and accidentally smudging his makeup with his glove. Like a clown, he despaired, eyeing his mess of a hair and the now smudged lips. Like someone with zero sense of style.

It was a disaster. He was a disaster.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Summary:** When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

 **Warnings:** Language, Reborn, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings

 **Rating:** T

 **Word Count:** 4484

 **Author's Note:** If you have some ideas about this story or any of my other ones, please review or PM me because I'm kind of in a ditch right now. I had some ideas but I would like to read what you would like to see (not sure if I will do it but just reading it might help). So yeah. This chapter is mainly Regulus thinking about the past and absolutely zero action. Awful, I know. Anyway, if you see some mistakes, please kindly point them out to me.

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 **Chapter 2**

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"Well, " he started, a little hysterically but more grounded than he was a few minutes before, "Well."

He relocated to the living room of the apartment and was looking around, searching for some kind of clue. What clue? He didn't know yet, something that may explain, even if just a little.

His eyes strayed to the stains on the coffee table and the rug underneath. Then to the muddy footprints on the wooden floor, the dust that was practically everywhere and the multiple spiderwebs near the ceiling of the room.

There was an aquarium in the corner of the room. It was quite big but when Regulus looked at it, he didn't see any fish swimming in it. So, an empty aquarium, because why not. What the hell was going on. He came closer to it and peered into it, squinting at the small castle standing proudly at the center of it. There was something there...

With newfound curiosity, he reached into the tank, hand drifting to the small building. The sleeve of his jumpsuit was getting soaked but he ignored it, his eyes focused on the aquarium. He reached deeper and-

Promptly started screeching as something latched onto his hand. He pulled it out of the tank with the speed of light and started shaking it, trying to dislodge the thing clinging onto it. When it didn't work, his scream petered out into a small whimper and his flailing slowly stopped. He held his arm away from his body and tried leaning back from it as far as possible. Of course, it didn't really work, what with it being his arm.

He stopped trying to get rid of the something and looked at it properly. It was… an octopus. A small, red thing, its head bulbous and its tentacles sticking to his flesh and it was disgusting and he was cringing but it was also kind of, adorable? He was confused and weirded out and there were a thousand ridiculous thoughts in his head and none of them explained why he was kind of okay with such a puke-inducing thing clinging onto him. He slowly went back to the aquarium and pried (with great effort and some coaxing and _what_ , it needed to be coaxed and calmed and _actually understood_ him?) the thing loose, putting it back in its tank and backing away quickly.

He turned his attention back to the flat (but kept an extra sharp eye on the animal, just in case, feeling shivers wrack his body as he could _feel_ it watching him with those neon green eyes, _creepy_ ).

It was dirty and disgusting here and Regulus wanted to sneer at the Muggles and their filthy selves. He wanted to curse them all. He did. He really, really did. He wanted to.

Instead, he thought he might just cry. It was a good thing he was alone because he would have been ashamed (and he would have shamed his House) when somebody heard the pitiful whine that escaped his lips and trained off into silence again. He was in a muggle flat, dressed in muggle clothes. He hoped that that was all. He hoped that there wasn't, for example, a Muggle itself around here.

He wanted to cry so bad. Sirius would have laughed himself sick and his mother would have screeched herself hoarse and his father would have been so silent that he may have been dead instead. And Kreacher would have- Kreacher! Merlin's beard!

"K-Kreacher!" He calls, stuttering over the name like some Mudblooded imbecile. He immediately hates himself a little for that mistake. His mother would have had his head, oh she would have...

He waits for a tense few seconds and just as he's prepared to call again, with panic squeezing his heart in a steel like grip, a _'pop'_ sounds from behind him.

He whirls around, eyes wide, mouth open and fists clenched but doesn't even have time to choke out anything that might have found its way into his momentarily empty mind. Because.

Because Kreacher is standing there, in front of him, twisting his long, scarred fingers back and forth and his huge tennis ball eyes are looking at him with such wonder and just a little bit of fear and Regulus, Regulus just stands there like an idiot. He doesn't know what to do and what to say. It's been he-didn't-know-how-long and the last time he spoke to his friend was when he was delirious with pain and dying and being dragged underwater by the Inferi.

And so he thinks back to his childhood and slowly lowers himself into his knee before the little house elf, who looks like he's going to cry, eyes teary and nose runny.

"Master Regulus..." he croaks, voice cracking, then bows his head and closes his eyes. Tears slip down to his nose where they gather and fall onto the floor. Regulus starts forward, hands hovering uselessly above the hunched back clad in a dirty pillowcase. But when his first (and probably only, Slytherin doesn't make friends, only allies and of the two Black brothers it was Sirius who was the chatty and open one, the one who made friends as easily as he breathed) friend starts sobbing, Regulus doesn't hesitate and gathers him in his arms.

Kreacher doesn't even try to protest, long and thin fingers clenching his bike jumpsuit. And perhaps that is indication enough of Kreacher's mental and emotional state because the elf never actually allowed himself to wail and cling and sob like this. He bickered with Sirius and was a bitter and cheeky little bugger, grumpy and grumbling but never crying. Never like this. Never did he allow himself to be held in Regulus' arms after a beating, or a disciplining curse from Regulus' parents or a tumble down the stairs, courtesy of Sirius. He sometimes let the younger Black to cast a healing charm (though Regulus suspected that it was because Kreacher didn't want to make him feel bad, so he indulged him) but never did he want to be hugged or embraced. He was always citing about propriety and servants and duties.

But he was a friend. Regulus didn't see him for Merlin only knows how long and no one was even here so damn it all to hell, he will hug Kreacher until the end of the world if he wants to.

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By the time they both calmed down (Regulus wasn't an emotionless brick wall, he had feelings too, and in this case, it was quite a lot of feelings. And tears. Yes. There was quite a lot of tears.), it was dark outside. Regulus furrowed his brows at that, the time didn't really matter since he didn't know what time it was when they laid eyes on each other so whatever.

He let out a shuddering breath, wiped his face on his shoulder (because his arms were otherwise occupied with clutching on to Kreacher like he was a lifeline) and stood up, slowly making his way over to the sofa, which was cluttered with magazines about the Muggle machines and parts of some motorcycles (he could only assume that the parts were meant for or from the bike standing by the wall behind him, and _why_ was there a motorcycle in the apartment in the first place). He used one hand to support his friend (it wasn't a particularly demanding task, as Kreacher was incredibly light and bony, it made him look at the elf with worry etched on his features) and the other to sweep everything off the couch. He plopped himself down on it, arranging Kreacher in his lap. Then he reached for a conveniently nearby placed blanked and pulled it off the back of the couch and over his shoulders, curling up and bundling himself and Kreacher up.

He felt like a child. It was a good feeling.

He cleared his throat and called, "Kreacher..."

The sniffles coming from the elf stopped momentarily and the servant raised his head, meeting Regulus' purple (they were supposed to be silver why weren't they, what was going on) eyes with his own washed out blue.

"Master Regulus, is yous truly here, Master Regulus?" He croaked, gaze roaming about Regulus' features, taking in his face with great reverence. His tone was full of hope, his lips forming a small, disbelieving smile.

And Regulus, pureblood and brought up as the scion ( _the spare_ , his mind whispers traitorous, _Sirius was the heir_ ) of a Noble House, with his immaculate manners and book-perfect savoir vivre, chokes around a sob, wipes his nose on his sleeve and says, "Y-Yea, it's really me, Kreacher, my friend." And that sends the both of them into sniffing fits again, so Regulus resolves to just shut his mouth and not to say anything more.

Of course, the whole idea worked for about two minutes before he started getting impatient and antsy. He shifted in place and felt Kreacher tighten his hands in his jumpsuit. He stilled but after ten seconds squirmed again and heard a small huff coming from the house elf, who extracted himself from Regulus arms and scooted back on the couch, looking like he wanted to stand at attention but Regulus quickly darted out a hand to stop him. The elf seemed to tear up a little more but he took a deep breath and calmed.

"Kreacher-" he started again, not sure what to say. "What-" he really had no idea how to phrase everything he wanted to say into coherent sentences so he decided to just go with something easy. "What year is it?" Or maybe not so easy after all.

After a long pause, a quick sweep of Regulus' figure once more, the elf carefully answers, "It is the year 2007, the 31 of October, Master Regulus. Yous have been gone since 1979."

Regulus slowly mulls over the fact that he doesn't remember twenty-eight years of his life, that he still _feels_ like he did when he was eighteen, that he still _looks_ like he did when he was eighteen (even if it's a Muggle punk teenager without taste and with selective blindness, the shape of his features is still the same and the Mark is still there, washed-out but still). His brain processes the fact that he feels like the events in the cave happened just yesterday. And maybe they did, for him. But, guessing by all the new, unknown to him scars stretching across his body, the one in control of this body clearly wasn't petrified or preserved for nearly three whole decades. The one in control was clearly doing something. Was living his life. In his body. Without Regulus' permission. Or knowledge.

Because Regulus doesn't remember a thing from the past twenty-eight years. Nothing at all. Like he just went to sleep in the cave and woke up here.

It was horrifying.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and fingers moving haphazardly through his hair. What was he going to do? Was Voldemort still alive? Was _Sirius_? Was _his family_? Was the war over or was it still waging?

It hurt. Thinking hurt. His head felt like it was going to burst from all these thoughts and he just didn't know and-

He felt a sharp pull at his scalp, realized that he was tugging at his hair again and slowly unclenched his fists. He lifted his eyes from where they were glued to the dirty purple rug under his feet and settled his gaze on Kreacher again.

He straightened, shoving all that emotional bullshit to the back of his mind, deciding to deal with it never and focused all his attention on his ally. His only link to the past and to the Wizarding World. His friend.

And after finally steeling himself, plowed on with the questions, not mincing his words in the slightest and asking directly about everything.

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Alright, Regulus was a healthy and young looking forty-six year old, no big deal. He may even say that it was the effect of good genes. Yeah, he could just say that. No.

"I'm a middle aged man in a teenage body with purple hair. My life is a magnificently fucked up mess," he said absently and stunned himself into silence because what. Since when did he curse. He was above such primitive methods of relieving emotions. He was the son of the most ancient and-

And what the fuck, he was going to curse if he wanted, there wasn't any Walburgas around here. He glanced around suddenly suspicious, his fingers twitching for a wand that wasn't there. No, no sign of her.

Twenty-eight years ago he went into that cave with the knowledge that he won't come out. He was so sure of it. He was convinced that it was the end. He saw clearly that death was inevitable and accepted that. Welcomed it, even.

He was the undesirable one. Sirius was the heir. He was only the spare, he knew. He knew that his parents looked at him and wished for him to be Sirius because while he was a quiet and agreeable shadow, his elder brother was a shining star, always talking and pulling everyone into his orbit. That was how the heir was supposed to act, always the center of attention, the one who talks, the one who leads. They just wanted Sirius to agree with them, like Regulus always did. Unfortunately, when he did it, in search of approval, it brought only pain and derision because _you can't just follow, Regulus, you are a Black, and Blacks don't follow but are followed!_

He knew that, he did, but he really wasn't a social person and by the time Sirius was announced to be a Gryffindor (bringing dishonour to the Family, associating with Mudbloods and Blood Traitors), it was already too late for Regulus to change (pretend) that he was in any way interested in social interactions between himself and his peers.

Sirius was the life of the parties (play dates) their parents arranged with other purebloods. Regulus was the quiet presence on the side, reading or just observing while Sirius made up fun games and told great stories.

But as much as his mother complained about him following, it wasn't really the case. He was attached to Sirius, yes, but he wasn't following, just, drifting.

It was always like that, Sirius being the loud one, people always looking at him and Regulus standing by, looking over but never joining, staying back, alone. It never bothered him, he was the most comfortable when alone, and while his Family didn't exactly like that, they never interfered. They tried throwing scathing remarks at him ( _why did Sirius have to turn out to be such a Mudblood lover, he was the perfect heir_ and _at least try to be more like your brother_ ) but not pressuring.

Regulus didn't mind much (it was how it has always been, him being measured to the greatness that is his elder brother). And then he was fourteen and Sirius has just left home (left him, left Regulus to rot, ran away, didn't look back, betrayed him, the traitor) and they presented him to the Dark Lord like a gift and he was officially accepted into the ranks of the Death Eaters and his forearm was marked with Voldemort's magic. And suddenly he started to mind very much. Because it was his life and he didn't get to choose, didn't have a fighting chance, didn't have any say in this. He was handed over on a silver platter and his Family was bowing to this man ( _do not slouch, Regulus, back straight, Blacks bow to no one_ ).

He was caged from all sides and he didn't like it. Not. One. Bit. That was when he started planning to break free. And to do that, he needed to get rid of the Dark Mark. He needed to get rid of Voldemort. He needed a guarantee that when (if) he managed to defeat (hopefully kill) the Dark Lord, he would have an excuse for his actions. Others can't think that he was a traitor so he needed to make Voldemort look like a traitor.

So he started gathering newspaper articles, photographs, letters (when he actually dared to break into his mother's drawers) and other things. Little things, some were innocent others not so, alone they were useless but together, oh together. When he hung them on his walls and looked at the picture they made, that's when things started to pick up.

Voldemort started his activities some years ago, he was older than twenty (somewhere between twenty and fifty, it was hard to guess, magic did some weird things to the normal process of aging and it was always a hit or miss, he was). Wise, incredibly intelligent and cunning, with distinct features (perfect everything, from the shape of his jaw, strong but not too masculine, to the very last lock on his head, curled just right, exactly as the fashion dictated) and a Perselmouth. He freely admitted to knowing Hogwarts and its teachers, throwing references about the Houses (high probability that he attended there to school) and referring to himself as the heir of Slytherin (even higher possibility of him being taught there).

So Regulus scrambled to search for anyone who matched the description. It wasn't anyone from the Noble Families, he was sure, as he was introduced to nearly everyone who was worthy of the Blacks association. And those that weren't ( _those are Blood Traitors, Regulus, my boy, they betrayed our kind, supporters of that bumbling fool, Dumbledore and his filthy ideas_ ) were usually pointed out as the person _you don't want to talk to, Regulus, trust your mother, boy._

So that left him with the option of the Dark Lord being a half blood or a Mudblood. It still shocked him, the sheer audacity of the man. Here was a Mudblood ruling over those of pure blood. Despite this eye-opening discovery, he continued his search for the wizard. His efforts weren't futile. Because he soon learned that there was a record of exactly one death in Hogwarts in the last sixty years. Exactly one, petrified female student, unpopular and disliked, someone who wouldn't be missed, whose absence wouldn't be noticed because she was just so unimportant.

(Was her death on purpose or was it a mistake. Was it planned or was it an accident. Was it Voldemort.)

There were also reports of the Chamber of Secrets being open and a monster going around the school, petrifying students (not permanently, unlike the girl, Myrtle Elizabeth Warren, who died on the 13 June) in the same year – 1943.

But the perpetrator was captured and it was Rubeus Hagrid, the Gatekeeper, _the half-giant_. The theory that that _oaf_ was the heir send him into hysterics, he couldn't look the man in the face for _days_ without his mouth twitching. So he looked further and found it. The one who captured the perpetrator, his name was Tom Riddle. The boy with Special Services to the School, the prefect and Head Boy.

Regulus was pretty set on him being Voldemort and after looking through some old photos in Slughorn's office and finding the man's middle name, he knew deep in his bones that it was him. Tom Marvolo Riddle, whose name made an anagram _'I am Lord Voldemort'_ , it couldn't be more obvious. Why didn't _everyone_ know that? In the end, it wasn't that hard to guess, it was a combination of logic and luck that he found out, but mostly logic. Then he remembered that most of the Wizarding World _didn't use_ such things as _logic_ and all made sense. They were just imbeciles. Idiots who didn't know any better. But now _he_ knew better and didn't know what to do with that knowledge. It was useless to him, in the end, as he was significantly weaker that the Dark Lord, he couldn't defeat him. He needed _something_ , some trump card. Something he could hold over the man, something incredibly important to him, that he could use as a bait.

And then, as if the very heavens heard his pleas, the opportunity presented itself, the Dark Lord requested Krecher for testing his defenses on some place. And when the elf returned sobbing and injured, he knew that he needed to go there. Whatever was there, the defenses guarding it were strong and clearly meant to protect something important.

Meant to kill. And kill they nearly did. He faced death with the firm conviction in mind that it was the last time he faced anything, that it was the end. He was prepared for it… not really, he was terrified and so, _so_ afraid and _was there something beyond this world or was there just nothingness and pain and_ –

But he survived. He didn't know how or why. As he was thinking, his lips pursed into a flat line and his eyes glazed over and in no time at all Kreacher was wailing about how he didn't know that Master Regulus was alive, he followed the instructions and took the locker and – and Regulus had to keep Kreacher from knocking himself out when the elf started beating his head against the wall, screaming about how he _failed his Master, bad elf, bad, bad, bad_.

He knelt down and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, keeping him at arm's length and looked him in the eye.

"We've been over this already," he said, his voice stern but not unkind. "You tried, didn't you?" He waited patiently for the frantic nodding and plowed on, "This boy, Harry Potter, he destroyed it, didn't he? And all the other Horcruxes."

He felt mildly ill again, _Horcruxes_ , as in plural. There were supposedly _seven_ soul pieces, eight of you count the one who was sentient and started the Second Wizarding War.

Kreacher bobbed his head up and down in agreement and looking at him with hope in his eyes though, so he had to say something more.

"I'm proud of you," he settled on, feeling both bitter ( _he_ never heard something like that aimed his way) and well, proud (Kreacher was brave and stubborn and loyal). And he was really happy to call someone like that a friend. Because Kreacher was determined to do his best for Regulus, because Regulus was his friend too, and he asked it of him as his dying wish.

It was unfair of him, he knew, to use his last words to order Kreacher to do something so clearly out of his league (and Voldemort was out of his league, out of everyone's league, except perhaps Dumbledore and, it seems, Harry Potter). He could have used his last breath (or at least what he was convinced was his last breath) to say _'thank you'_ or _'you're my first friend'_ or _something_. But he used it to beg a house elf to destroy a piece of jewelry, to finish what he started, to end the Dark Lord. He put all the world's weight on these skinny shoulders and it must have been _awful_ for Kreacher, knowing that he tried everything and couldn't, just _couldn't_ fulfill a dying wish of a boy he looked after since the day Regulus was born.

Looking down, he smiled absently when he felt the long, crooked fingers grab onto his forearms and give a reassuring squeeze. Kreacher was looking at him with the familiar adoration, eyes big and full of wonderment and lips almost painfully pulling up at the corners.

"Is Master Regulus hungry?" He asked, and Regulus opened his mouth to say no, they had much to discuss yet, but was interrupted by the gurgling sound coming from his stomach. He looked to up to see that there appeared to be a small smile on the house elf's wrinkled face and he himself couldn't resist the small grin that popped up on his own face out of nowhere.

Then he remembered something and turned to the aquarium situated in the corner of the living room. He walked over and stuck his hand in the water, feeling vaguely nauseous when the slimy creature immediately latched onto him. He looked back at Kreacher, snorted at the incredulous expression on his face and reached out his free hand to him.

"Let's go home, Kreacher. Then, you can cook me a breakfast fit for kings," and he laughed, even as he was whisked away from the small Muggle flat.

* * *

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* * *

"Naaah, Lal, are you ready to go?"

"I was ready ten minutes ago."

"What? No! You were still packing!"

"No, I was already waiting."

"I clearly saw you fluttering about and shoving clothes into your suitca-"

"Shut _up_ , Colonelo. Moron."

* * *

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* * *

" _Reborn_! Why do we have to go too? I'm not a Boss yet!"

"Stop your whining, Dame-Tsuna. It's the annual Vongola Christmas ball. As the heir to the hosting Family, your presence is required."

"Can't they just _not_ host the ball?"

"It's tradition. Everyone is looking forward to the yearly Snow Battle, too."

"B-battle?! No way! We just got some peace and quiet! What stupid tradition is it?!"

"Shut up, Dame-Tsuna, or I will shoot you." _Bang_.

"HIEEEE! You just did, Reborn!"

"Chaos."

* * *

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* * *

"Boss! The old man sent an invitation to the annual Christmas party! Are we going?" _Crash_. " _VOOOOOOIII!_ DID YOU JUST THROW A FUCKING TEQUILA AT ME, SHITTY BOSS?!"

"Shut your filthy mouth, shark trash."

"Vooooi!"

"Muuu, the Arcobaleno are all coming this year too, it would be a waste of money not to show up when the household prepared for all possible outcomes from the Snow Battle. It would also help in relieving stress."

"Shut up! The boss is thinking, don't interrupt hi-" _Crash_.

"Shishishishishi!"

"Fuck you, Levi you fucking perv!"

"Ara, Squ-chan, don't be a meany to poor little Levi~!"

"Stay silent, piece of trash. Of course we will be there, maybe the old fart will finally kick the bucket in a corner from heart failure or something," snort. "Now get me some steak, shark trash."

* * *

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* * *

"Princess-"

"I know, Gamma. Tell them that the Giglio Nero-"

"And me, don't forget about meeeee, Yuni-chaaan~!"

"-and Byakuran will be there."

* * *

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* * *

"The Annual Vongola Christmas Party? Hmm, shall I clear my schedule for that matter or not. That Reborn wanted us to meet there but I do not wish to follow his orders. But then, Yuni will be unhappy because she said that she is currently in need of some relax and wishes to see the Arcobaleno. Hmm-"

* * *

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* * *

"What do you think, Lichi? Ball with the Vongola? It's a good thing they sent the invitation with about a month and a half to spare. Thanks to that, we have time to prepare. I wonder how are the others doing. The last time we saw each other was during the Battle of the Rainbow, after all."

* * *

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	3. Chapter 3

**Summary:** When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

 **Warnings:** Language, Reborn, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings

 **Rating:** T

 **Word Count:** 4564

 **Author's Note:** Yeah, no, it's awful. Got any ideas about this fic or any of my other ones? Send me a PM or leave a review. See mistakes, point them out so that I can fix them.

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 **Chapter 3**

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"Kreacher, are you sure? If Sirius really willed the Black fortune to this Harry Potter..." Regulus started, uncertain and afraid. If Sirius really wrote the whole Black fortune in his will then where would Regulus go? Where _should_ he go? Did he have anywhere to stay at, other than his childhood home?

His former classmates and allies were just that, former classmates and allies. And he didn't think he had much of either. His age mates and other Slytherins were most likely dead, in hiding or in Azkaban. Or they knew about Regulus' betrayal and would kill him where he stood, if he came to them for help.

There was also the option of them turning to the Light, turning their backs on Voldemort but Regulus didn't count on that. It sounded ridiculous. Too good to be true.

Then they could _not_ know about him betraying Voldemort himself, and rat him out to the government (or whoever was in charge now, Dumbledore's former associates and pupils, most likely, and the whole Harry Potter gang, maybe?) anyway. Maybe buying their way to freedom by selling out a former associate. After that his options would be either going to Azkaban or death or whatever-they-did-to-criminals-these-days. Or former criminals.

Did he count as a criminal if what he did was decades ago? And he was still a minor, back then. His actions were committed under peer pressure and family influence. Technically, he could use those arguments to free himself of any charges they may have against him...

He snorted, yeah, _no_. The Wizarding World wasn't known for acting reasonably so his wiggling and _slytherining_ out of the situation using rational arguments may as well go over their heads. The dunderheads wouldn't understand, most likely. They will see the Death Eater, supporter of Voldemort, criminal. They won't see a seventeen year old (actually, forty-five year old, but nobody needed to know that) being forced to serve the Dark Lord at fourteen, after his elder brother left him with their family. A dark inclined family that wasn't afraid to throw a _Crucio_ or two at one of their own _misbehaving_ children. They wouldn't see a boy that was scared of his own parents but a cold-blooded murderer, a reminder of a tyrant and his reign, of times long past. But maybe not so long, it was only eight years since the fall of the Dark Lord, meaning that they would hunt for any Dark Wizards with all the more fervor.

No, he definitely won't be going to any of his former associates. No, no, no. That would be a horrible idea.

And his age, he groaned. How would he ever explain that? The Department of Mysteries would have had a field day. The Daily Prophet, too. He could already see the headlines, _'Regulus BLACK, a forty-five year old, suddenly appears looking no older than seventeen. The rise of a new Dark Lord? Discoverer of the Fountain of Youth? Or time travel? The exclusive interview with the aforementioned Death Eater on page 3!'_.

And the government itself would dose him with _Verita Serum_ , trying to make him reveal all his secrets to immortality. Ugh. He grimaced, they would take him for another Voldemort, think he dabbled in Horcruxes and lock him up. Yes, no. He was _definitely_ avoiding contacting his former acquaintances.

He gazed around the gloomy building, feeling nostalgic and reminiscent. Grimmauld Place hasn't changed in all the years he has been gone. Not one bit. Everything was still as old and dark as it was when he was still a child.

However there were some things that were different. For one, there was dust and cobwebs. His mother would have screeched like a banshee (not that she had any _other_ volume besides that, mind you) if she ever saw the state of the house. He followed Kreacher when he saw the elf disappearing down the hall and into the dining room, from where he could easily enter the kitchen. He took in the peeling wallpaper and crooked paintings. There were eyes looking at him from the paintings. Wide, disbelieving eyes following his slow trek after the house-elf, lots of finger-pointing and behind-the-hands whispering.

He ignored them all and continued making his way to the kitchen.

"The Blood Trainor was blasted off the family tree by the good mistress, he was. The house stood open to him only because there was no order against it," explained the giddy elf, fluttering about the kitchen and preparing a meal. Regulus settled at the small table, out of the way of the flying plates and utensils and glanced around before slowly, carefully, putting his elbows on the wood and leaning his head on his left fist, his right arm laying on the table, his fingers tapping a slow rhythmic pattern into the its surface.

His eyes flickered around once more, his ears straining to hear anything beyond Kreacher's excited chatter. There was nothing but the clanking of dishes and silverware and he smiled, slowly, tense muscles relaxing, and leaned all his weigh on the table. His eyes crinkled, a huff of a laugh escaping him.

There was no one to tell him what to do, no one to scold him _("Put those elbows off the table, have you learned nothing, stop behaving like some mudblooded lout, where are your manners, do you need me to remind you–"_ ), no one to punish him. His mother was dead. His whole family was gone. From Kreacher's ramblings, he got that only his cousin Andromeda and her grandson (grandson, how crazy was that, he remembered her when she was still a schoolgirl and she was a grandmother now, Merlin) remained (although they weren't actually Blacks, Andy was blasted off the Family Tree and the child was her daughter's and that werewolf's, Lupin's, one of Sirius' friends). His father died a few years after Regulus took his one (supposed) last stand against Voldemort and his mother died a short while after him. The rest of the family, the olds, were all dead too.

Harry Potter _technically_ counted as family, as did Cissy and her son but those weren't _pure_ Blacks (except Cissy) and from the information dump going on in the kitchen courtesy of Kreacher, he knew that there wasn't anything significant that either of them received after all the other Blacks died.

He learned that Sirius was not returned to the Family Tapestry after Regulus' supposed death and the Black Family riches were not written for him. They were for _Regulus_ , even when his mother thought him dead.

After a moment of consideration, he shook his head. She _must_ have checked with the goblins and when they confirmed that the status of heir didn't change (still alive but somewhere unreachable), she surely thought he was on a mission from the Dark Lord or something like that, he knew her too well. And everyone knew about his obsession (true but not in the sense they thought) with the Dark Lord so no one even suspected (at least he thought so) that he wasn't on the lunatic's side anymore. The articles and pictures on the walls gave that impression and he was somewhat glad for the smokescreen that it made, he didn't need to hide his research on Voldemort's true identity because everyone thought it was just part of his fanatical self.

And nobody (should have) realized that he betrayed Voldemort until the time when his note in the false locket was discovered, which was somewhere from 1996 to 1997 (from Kreacher's story), quite a long time after his apparent death.

So his mother knew he was alive somewhere, probably fulfilling a mission for the Dark Lord, and decided to just leave her will as it was (leaving everything to him and only him, he would be touched if he didn't know that she technically didn't have any other choice, with Bellatrix in Azkaban, Andy a Blood Traitor, Sirius _both_ a Blood Traitor and in Azkaban and Cissy in Malfoy's hold, those blond _peacocks_ would have destroyed the Black family if they only had the chance to get their grabby hands on the vaults).

So Sirius was let into Grimmauld Place because the house recognized him and the defenses were lowered, the wards old and rusty, in need of repair and renewing. And he let the Order in to have their secret meetings here. The idiot. Then he wrote everything he ( _thought_ he) owned onto Harry Potter and died.

It stung, his death, Kreacher had enough sense to say all this in a fairly neutral tone, masking any feeling he might have had about Sirius' death himself (he must have been ecstatic, Regulus thought dryly, he would have been, too, if he was treated the way Sirius treated Kreacher in their childhood, his brother could scream all he was worth that he was nothing like their mother but Regulus saw all the times when he pushed Kreacher down the stairs or kicked him in his anger, in those moments he was so like their mother that Regulus was afraid to even _breathe_ wrong), wary of the suddenly shiny silver eyes and Regulus' tight expression, and Regulus felt a wave of affection towards the old elf.

Even when he didn't care about Sirius, he cared about Regulus and through him, he, in some way, ended up being careful and respectful when talking about the death of his brother.

Of course, Kreacher then ruined the moment when he started elaborating on what an awful time it was when he was forced to spend it with both Sirius _and_ the Order, croaking about the absolutely _horrible_ Blood Traitors and their appalling lack of any manners whatsoever. It was nice to know that that part of him hadn't changes in the slightest. He thought, with wry amusement, that he knew what his friend was doing, taking Regulus' focus off the heavy thoughts by lamenting about the time he spent with the Order.

And as he leaned forward, silver eyes trained on his friend's small form, he smiled fondly and breathed deeply, taking in the slightly musky scent of Grimmauld Place. He was finally home.

* * *

...

* * *

The party went off without a hitch. Or, as without a hitch as anything involving Vongola goes. That is to say, there were some minor complications. But that was to be expected. Mixing alcohol and Christmas cheer and adding to that equation the fact that the steak wasn't up to Xanxus' standards, the Eastern Wing of the Vongola Mansion was blown up.

The Snow Battle after that ended up going in flames. Literally and figuratively, as the Varia and soon-to-be Vongola Tenth Generation were placed on opposing teams. The fact that Reborn choose that moment to rile everyone up didn't help. The weaker guests (or those who didn't want to get involved in the bloodbath) carefully removed themselves from perimeter when they saw the Wrath Flames lighting up around Xanxus' hands and casting eerie glow on his face. His brow was twitching and his lips were pulled back in a terrifying mockery of a smile that seemed to be more of a snarl.

When Skull didn't show up to the party, nobody even noticed. There was too much to do, to many guests to greet and food to eat and conversations to engage in. Therefore, he wasn't especially missed by the gathering. No one waited for him and everybody just assumed that someone else saw him fiddling and fooling around.

So it was no surprise that after the party, when the Arcobaleno decided to meet up in one of the rooms generously provided by the Ninth for this occasion, no one even thought that Skull may actually not be there. They waited two hours, chatting idly and laughing together but everyone noticed the silence that crept up on them when the ideas for conversation dried up. Normally, it was at this very moment that Skull did something (usually stupid) to gain their attention and Reborn punished him for whatever moronic thing he did.

So it was after a few minutes of silence and clinking of teacups and cracks of biscuits, and whatever other pastries there were, being eaten, that Reborn finally voiced his displeasure.

"Where is that idiot Lackey?" He growled, dark eyes scanning the room as if the Cloud would suddenly pop up from thin air. The others looked around as well, knowing the purple-haired man to be partial to grand entrances, screaming about his greatness and proclaiming his superiority over Reborn. There was no such thing now. Only silence.

Colonello growled, getting to his feet, "If that idiot thinks he can just stand us up-" he started, pushing away from the table to stare at the door and cracking his knuckles.

"Then he has another thing coming," continued Reborn, tipping his hat to shadow his darkly glinting eyes, a smirk growing on his lips. He stuck his hand out to the table where Leon was previously exploring, for the chameleon to climb onto and change into his favorite green gun.

Yuni sighed, smiling at them exasperated, trying to placate them, "Maybe Skull had something else to do? Besides, it's not really that important."

Reborn looked at her out of the corner of his eye, "I quite disagree, Yuni. We had an accord to meet here. All of us. If he had some other plans, he should have said something. Instead, he choose not to come at all, the spineless coward," Colonello snorted, clearly of the same mind and Lal leaned back in her chair, silently agreeing.

"Maybe he didn't have such plans back then?" Suggested Fong, calming smile firmly in place and a cup of tea cradled in his hands, steam rising from it in little puffs of white mist.

"Arcobaleno plans take precedence. Anything other, that came up, should have come second place," muttered Verde, fiddling with a small mobile phone in his hands. Colonello nodded sagely, arms crossed and an annoyed expression on his face.

"Well then," Reborn stood up, straightening his already impeccable black suit, a wicked smile curving his lips, "We will just have to remind Lackey about that, won't we?"

* * *

...

* * *

Skull was not home, was the general conclusion that was shared by all the Arcobaleno after barging into the empty flat. The trip to the tiny apartment lasted three hours, an hour on the private plane and two hours looking for the place. In truth, none of them really knew where _exactly_ Skull lived, only realizing it when it was time to lead the others to the Cloud's abode.

Skull's home was in Rome, as opposed to the Vongola Mansion in Palermo. That was something they all knew. Contrary to popular opinion, Skull apparently wasn't an idiot of epic proportions ( _only just_ , Reborn admitted silently) and didn't shout his address from the rooftops. Reborn might have even appreciated it if it didn't make the search for him all the note irritating and time consuming. Ad it was, they had to waste time looking.

When after two hours his spies, not bugs but people who owed him big and whose debts were called in (Lackey was going to pay), notified him of their wayward Cloud's address, he was ready to tear something apart. Better be it the Lackey.

So here they now stood, clustered in the dirty hallway, with peeling paint and smelly staircase. The block of flats was located in the poorer part of the city, crammed between two other apartment blocks. And as they stared into the tiny flat (Colonello was impatient and kicked the door in when nobody answered after four knocks), some of them became concerned. Others not so much, they became irritated.

Reborn strode past them and into the apartment and they slowly filed in after him, looking around curiously. As Reborn disappeared down the hall, they continued gazing at the messy living room. It was quite dirty, with long dried up, muddy footsteps all around, magazines and newspapers and parts of a bike strewn all around the floor. There was also an aquarium, where Yuni immediately trotted up to. She peered into it, tapping at the glass carefully but nothing came out of the castle, nothing moved, she could tell it was empty. She sighed, turning back to survey the room.

Her attention was caught by Reborn's voice, most likely coming from the bedroom, "Lackey is not here but his things are all around the place. It's disgusting."

Yuni chuckled, her eyes sparkling with mirth at the hitman's complaints, "Don't be too harsh on him, Uncle Reborn. He lives here alone, I think he's allowed to be a little messy," she tried to placate. Lal snorted, eyes roving critically over the papers, machinery, dust and mud on the ground and then the ugly chipped yellow paint of the living room and the cobwebs. She stared at the grease stains on the carpet, sofa, blanket and a little on the walls, and sighed, shaking her head with a faint smile.

Then she looked up, hearing a clatter from the bathroom. Reborn stood in the doorway, expression blank and tight and said, "There's blood in the bathroom."

Yuni froze, as did all the others but only for a second and then they were all making their way to the aforementioned room. Reborn pushed away from the doorway to make place for them and Yuni was carefully guided to the back of the group, the others not letting her see inside. She pushed on a few legs and backs in hopes of seeing anything but to no avail. They were bigger and stronger. A mere push from a child, former one of the Strongest Seven or not (especially as she was a Sky Arcobaleno and the strength itself referred to the Flames), would have little to no effect on them. So she turned her pout-face on and turned to Reborn, knowing that her Uncle was rather susceptible to her teary eyes and quivering bottom lip. But as it was, Reborn wasn't even looking at her, he was staring forward, brows furrowed and lips twisted as if he smelled something foul. He glanced to the side, at the light switch and started forward, towards it. When he reached it, he flicked it on. Nothing happened and he cursed under his breath.

"The lights are out. The bulbs might be just in need of changing. Or the electricity was cut off," he explained briefly and started walking towards a different light switch and when that one also didn't work, he ambled into the kitchen. Yuni followed after him, something unpleasant curling in her stomach as she gazed around the small area. It was utterly silent. The only sounds that she could hear was the mad whispering coming from the bathroom, hisses and quiet conversation between the rest of the former Arcobaleno.

She looked up when Reborn opened the fridge and a truly awful smell wafted out of it. She covered her mouth and nose and her eyes watered at the smell.

"The food has gone bad. Looks like it was here for a while," he commented, almost nonchalantly (if not for the slightest edge to his voice, a tense line to his shoulders, a hard look on his face) while peering inside. He pursed lips and wrinkled nose a little, expressing his disgust. A voice sounded from the door, Colonello standing there and looking troubled.

"Reborn, it doesn't seem to be much blood. Maybe the Lackey just nicked himself while he was shaving?" The poor attempt at a joke was meant to loosen up the atmosphere but Yuni suddenly felt cold. All the Arcobaleno regained their former bodies, the ones from before they were cursed. That meant that the world finally got to see the real people who were behind the adorable, chubby with baby fat and innocently wide-eyed faces.

Reborn himself was in his early thirties, she guessed, the same for Lal and Verde, who looked to be the oldest of them. Colonello was younger, in his late twenties, maybe around twenty-seven. Viper's age was anyone's guess, they hid themselves even after all these years, never showing their face or divulging any personal information about themselves. Yuni herself was seven years old.

But the one who really made her take a second look was Skull. His voice was thankfully no longer the screeching and wailing one he had when he was an infant. From what she remembered when she last saw him (when was this, _when_ , was it weeks ago, no, she hasn't seen him since they parted ways after regaining their freedom, a few days after the Representative Battle of Rainbow. What kind of Sky was she, was she even _his_ Sky, she didn't know. She never had an especially strong connection with the other Arcobaleno because they already had two Skies before her and were grieving them. But even though, she _had_ a connection with them. Only the purple-haired Cloud was a unknown, always away, always distant. She never felt any special bond with him, _were they even bonded_ , was he even one of _hers_? Was he even her Element, oh god), his voice was even and, dare she say it, smooth. Of course, that was only when Reborn or Colonello or Lal, or anybody, really, wasn't bullying him.

His behavior, after getting over the weirdness of the new (old) body, was quite strangely smooth, too. It was looping strides and controlled movements. More reserved expressions and guarded looks. That is, if he wasn't getting riled up about Reborn or screeching or screaming or laughing uproariously (a little bit of fakeness). Suffice it to say, she rarely got to see that strange Skull but when she did, she dismissed it. How wrong she was.

And it wasn't often that she heard him say anything, either. He was often shut up by one of his fellow Elements, she thought guiltily. Or preferred not to say anything, staying silent in the few weeks where they stayed together after regaining their freedom.

Only now did she realize that all of this _meant_ something. Maybe his upbringing was rearing its head or he was always like this or maybe he was acting.

But despite all this, there lingered an awkwardness, something that wasn't present in any of the other Arcobaleno, who were already adults.

Skull talked like he was unsure, back then (if he talked at all, and now that she thought about it, she realized with shame that she didn't really talk to him, didn't engage him in a conversation, choosing to follow the others' example and simply ignore him), he talked... She furrowed her brow, thinking carefully about it. He talked like Tsunayoshi-san and Kozato-san. Like a teenager.

His face also wasn't fully that of an adult, she never even saw the stubble that grazed Verde's and, on the rare occasions, Reborn and Colonello's chins.

The hair, make-up and piercings only added to the young-rebellious-teenager image he had going on.

Now she felt sick. She wasn't sure, it may not necessarily be what she thought it was. Skull may just look young, it may be the result of his powerful Cloud Flames. She shook her head, now wasn't the time, there was something more important than that. Like finding Skull.

The silence that met Colonello's weak pun stretched almost painfully until she quietly asked what should they do.

"The electricity was cut off. That means the Lackey hasn't been paying his bills. The food is rotten and has been so for a few months. He's either a disgusting slob," here Reborn sneered and finally closed the fridge behind him with a click. Yuni leveled him with a disapproving gaze and he rolled his eyes. "Or," he added pointedly, "He's not been here for the few months that it's been there, gaining life on its own."

"Skull is an idiot but even I'm doubtful of the fact that he left it all to rot while he was living here. The conclusion to that would be, he has not been here to get rid of it," said Verde, walking into the room with his white lab coat billowing behind him, pushing his glasses up when they slipped down his nose. He glanced around at them and sniffed lightly, a grimace appearing on his face, "There is blood in the bathroom, not a big enough amount to kill, especially not Skull, but enough to knock out. The living room is in a disarray but there don't appear to be any signs of struggle. Most of his things are still here. He wouldn't have resisted if he was unconscious. And his unknown history with medically inclined group known as the Estraneo Famiglia. The neighborhood," here he curled his lip and coughed into his fist, disdain clear, "Doesn't look particularly friendly. Possibility of a kidnapping, sixty-one percent."

There was a silence again, so deep that she could have heard a pin drop.

"Is there something else that could have happened?" She asked desperately, trying to grasp any other subject. She was not ready to hear that Skull might have been kidnapped a few months ago and they didn't even care enough to check on him.

The scientist nodded absentmindedly, typing something on his phone, before answering her again, in a musing tone of voice, "There is also a possibility that he left himself, as indicated by the lack of struggle, the fact that his door and windows show no point of forced entrance. Also, his familiar is missing," he pointed carelessly over his shoulder in the general direction of the living room. Yuni suddenly remembered the empty aquarium and felt dread forming a lump down her throat. The electric green eyes peered at them over the glasses as Verde stopped tapping at his phone, "He may have also just left on a mission. He does belong to a Mafia Family still, doesn't he? What was it? The Carcassa, is that right?" He didn't even wait for confirmation before nodding to himself, not needing it, as he knew clearly that he was right.

Now Yuni felt a small ray of hope before it was squashed by the memory of just _who_ fought for Skull in the Representative Battle. It wasn't anyone from the Cloud's supposed Famiglia. It was Tsunayoshi-san's friend, Kozato-san and his own Family.

Now, she may not know many things but she liked to think that she at least knew a _little_ about her (former, but was he even _that_ , was he ever _hers_ to begin with) Cloud. And she knew that he was a proud person. He wouldn't have asked for help from someone he barely knew if he didn't have any other choice. That would mean that the Carcassa refused to fight for him.

She worried her yellow dress between her suddenly sweaty hands and looked down at her little boots. Maybe she was overthinking this. Maybe he knew Kozato-san from somewhere, before. Maybe they were friends. She certainly didn't know, as it appeared she herself hasn't been a friend to him at all. And what with her no longer being an Arcobaleno, her gift of Seeing dwindled to near nothing. She didn't know what the future held in store for them.

She tasted ashes on her tongue. She hoped they found Skull, and soon. She was beginning to get really worried.

* * *

...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary:** When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

 **Warnings:** Language, Reborn, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings, no Beta

 **Rating:** T

 **Word Count:** 5204

 **Author's Note:** Guys, this chapter was haaaard. And nothing really happens here. Cuz I don't know what should happen. On another note, I just graduated from high-school and am in the middle of my exam month so yea. Instead of studying, I was writing this. Yesterday it was my native language (basic and extended level), today it was maths (basic only), tomorrow it's English (b+e), all of them written. Then, on Monday I've got spoken English, the next day I'm taking a practical test to get my driving license. And then on the 13th I've got written geography. AND THEN, on the 18th, I've got spoken exam of my native tongue (Polish, for anyone interested). It's fuckin' awful. I'm so exhausted, my head's going to pop randomly soon. Wish me luck, keep your fingers crossed for me, do some voodoo things, chant some creepy songs for me so that I pass (with good results)? Yaaaa, see any mistakes, point them out. (And thanks for all the reviews, favs and follows, it's really encouraging and all XD)

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

* * *

It was All Hallows Eve so Kreacher really outdid himself and set the whole table in the dining room. The room itself still was a little dusty but the house elf started snapping his fingers the moment they entered the house so most of it was cleaned already. The old elf hummed in approval and cast a few more cleaning and air freshening charms. Then he waved his crooked fingers one last time and some candles situated around the room and the table (floating, of course, bringing back memories of Hogwarts) lit up quickly. A few more candles floated closer to the full table, casting more light on it.

The curtains were still drawn over the windows and a few of them were covering the places where he knew were some of the Family Paintings. He could have sighed in relief. He just didn't want to deal with this whole situation quite yet. He wanted to gather his thoughts first before his dead family members bombarded him with questions.

Moments after he was seated, a few floating pumpkins with carved out faces appeared around the room. Regulus was delighted, he remembered telling Kreacher all about them when he was visiting over Yule on his first year at Hogwarts, how brilliant and fun they looked. And how his mother would _never_ allow them to have anything like this in their house, _ever_ , no matter that it wasn't a Muggle custom but a wizarding one. It was childish and immature and his mother was of the opinion that her children came out of her womb as miniaturized versions of her and the other Black Olds (meaning grouchy and boring and screeching about Blood Traitors and such) and so didn't require any kind of joy in their lives. Regulus' lip curled at the thought while his eyes dimmed a little but Kreacher must have noticed because soon there was a healthy piece of pumpkin pie on his plate and a desert fork in his hand.

He slowly looked at the elf at his side and fought a smile at the expression of pure innocence on his friend's face (it looked hilarious because Kreacher didn't know how to look innocent, his big tennis-ball-eyes were blinking lazily and a reluctant smirk was pulling at the corner of his lips, he looked anything but innocent, coupled with the general _face_ of the elf, which was suspicious to anyone who didn't know him (that is everyone besides Regulus but he himself couldn't exactly say that the elf didn't look suspicious, he _did_ , very much so in fact) and it was plainly visible that the elf was, in fact, guilty).

"Desert before the main course, Kreacher?" He drawled. Mother would be displeased, he didn't add (Mother would have _been_ displeased, because she was dead so she _would have been_ ) because he knew all too well how it would work on his friend (body gone rigid, eyes shuttering, lips pressing into a flat line, hands twisting nervously at the hem of his old pillowcase). Fortunately, the elf knew exactly what he was doing and could recognize good-natured ribbing when he heard one. And could respond to it with something other than deference and a bowed head. Regulus was proud of the progress, once upon a time the elf would have gone to slam the door on his fingers for a comment like this one.

"What Mistress won't see, won't hurt her," explained the elf, with a long finger pressed to his mouth in a gesture for silence. A childish part of Regulus swelled in happiness because _that_ was the thing he loved mist about his friend. After Sirius went to Hogwarts (and before that, too) Kreacher was the one who played games with him if Sirius got bored of him. It was Kreacher who sneaked him some food when he was ordered to his room without a meal for misbehaving. It was Kreacher who always had time for him, Kreacher who tried helping him with homework, even if the elf didn't understand a thing about Magical Theory for the Wizards.

And he was doing it again, being helpful and friendly and trying to be funny to cheer him up. So Regulus was grateful and relieved because even if he abandoned his friend to his mother (quite an awful fate, if he did say so himself and he knew what he was saying, Sirius left him behind too, even if he had someone (it was Kreacher) with him still, he understood a little bit of the things that happened to Kreacher), and then, after she died (was he relieved or was he relieved, Merlin he was an awful son wasn't he) Kreacher was all on his own. Time didn't spare him, he mused, pensive. The wrinkles were worse and the skin of the elf was more paper-thin and pale, his back apperared to be even more hunched than what he remembered. There also appeared to be new scars all over his hands but Regulus carefully avoided looking at them because he felt guilt well up in him like a tsunami.

* * *

...

* * *

When Kreacher stuffed him full of food and was moderately satisfied with the amount he nearly shoved down Regulus' throat, he practically shooed Regulus out of the kitchen and upstairs. Regulus didn't complain because he felt exhaustion dragging his limbs down and his eyes shut the whole time and after drinking a glass of warm milk with honey (Kreacher, that _sneak_ , he always made it when Regulus couldn't sleep as a child and it always managed to lull him back right away, he knew it would have this effect on him, he did it on purpose) he craved sleep. He just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

Which is why he forgot about the _stupid_ coat hanger. The stupid _cursed_ coat hanger. So he tripped and while he caught himself on the wall, the stupid cursed object cluttered loudly to the ground.

He winced.

And then curtains flew open with a whoosh and a screech resembling that of a banshee filled the hallway, "WHO _DARES_ POLLUTE THE ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK WITH THEIR MUDBLOODED _INCOMPETENCE_!"

He could feel his pulse speeding up and his blood turning to ice simultaneously. He knew of only one person with such a healthy pair of lungs (unfortunate, that… he was a horrible son, he _knew_ ). His eyes immediately flickered towards the source of the voice and after a few tense seconds, he slowly relaxed again.

Because it was only a portrait. He breathed out a silent sigh, relief nearly sending him to his knees. She wasn't here, she was still- dead.

He nearly cringed. How callous. How... ungrateful of him. A woman who raised him was dead and he was glad for it. Such behavior wouldn't be tolerated by her. Or rather, wouldn't have.

If she was alive. But she wasn't. Well, nothing he could do about that. He thought about all the Dark rituals and Blood Arts and Magic in general. Or at least, he admitted reluctantly, nothing he _would_ do about this. He didn't _want_ to do anything about this. He wouldn't raise the dead even if she was the one asking.

(He carefully ignored the voice in his head telling him that he would have done everything in his power to please her, once. He didn't need her approval _now_. He was a grown man, forty-five years old, and even if those years didn't count, he was an adult already in the eyes of Magical World, as he has already passed his seventeenth birthday before his stupid quest nearly killed him.)

So he wasn't afraid of her. Not one bit.

The screaming continued and he would have been impressed by all the creative insults (his mother was _clearly_ a Slytherin and a smart one at that) if not for the fact that they were aimed at him. And the fact that it was his mother hurling them at him. And of course, the fact that he was on the receiving end of her lectures and screeching disciplining for years so it was nothing new or enlightening to him.

As it was, he was uncomfortable and beginning to lose the little confidence he gained when he realized that she was dead and, therefore, couldn't hurt him. She clearly could, as demonstrated by the nearly gaping chasm that opened up again in his chest when his Family did something to isolate him again. Like leave him behind (Sirius), ignore him completely (practically everyone) or cast some pretty nasty curses for discipline (Mother, most often). There was also the resentment curling in his stomach about how his Family practically gave his _soul_ to Voldemort in exchange for, well, nothing really. They didn't get anything in exchange for making him an eternal slave to that man (was he even a man, that monster). Not prestige (they already had _that_ ) not money (they also had plenty of _this_ ). Only more reasons for someone (read: him) to feel grudge. And lose money _("It's for the cause, Regulus,don't be greedy,it's unbecoming of a Pureblood, the Dark Lord requires it, it is a necessary sacrifice and in the end it doesn't put a dent in our vaults"_ ).

He finally attempted to interrupt her, "Mother-" and she quieted immediately, looking at him with wide eyes, her face twisted in a snarl as whatever insult she was delivering froze on her lips. She looked bewildered. There was a stunned pause as she considered him and he floundered (mentally, on the outside he was unmoved, his face could have been carved from marble and his eyes of steel) for something to say.

In the end he didn't need to say anything as she suddenly smiled, sharp and jagged, and leaned in, as if it would make a difference when she was just a painting. It _did_ make a difference, he thought, feeling more nervous, she used to do that a lot when she was still alive. This whole towering over someone, looking down her nose at them, chin up and smiling a smile that always managed to terrify the recipient of it.

Come to think of it, all her smiles terrified him. It wasn't the fact that they didn't reach her eyes or whatever, oh they _did_. But she was not a good woman, her contentment (not happiness, never happiness, Regulus didn't think she ever was or could ever be truly happy, she didn't seem capable of such basic human emotion, he thought, because she seemed untouchable) depended on the amount of respect given to _their_ kind, prestige of the Black Family and suffering or humiliation of Mudbloods and their supporters. Those were the only things that made her smile (besides the parodies of smiles she gave when social norms called for it, greeting people, being in public and chattering with fellow Purebloods).

And those were also things that Regulus really didn't like. He didn't like acting as the _pride_ of the House of Black, didn't like trying to uphold the greatness and all the other bullock things they told him their family was. He didn't like being the center of attention. But to keep the Black name in the spotlight, he needed to.

He also didn't particularly like causing damage to others. It didn't matter whether they were Mudbloods or Blood Traitors, Regulus simply didn't _want_ to harm them. It wasn't that he was too soft or that it made him sick, no. He was used to Crucios being thrown at him in his own home, it didn't turn him into meek pansy, it made him stronger. (He knew that he shouldn't approve of the way his parents raised him, knew on some level that it wasn't how it was supposed to be, Sirius told him as much. Of the ever wonderful Potters and their bright house and no curses being blasted at his friend, James. He _knew_ all that but it still didn't change the fact that this was the only childhood he had and the only one he remembered. So he was glad, in some way, for them being so tough on him because it allowed him to grow into the person he was that day, although what kind of person he became wasn't quite clear to him and was something he didn't want to exploit quite yet.)

He _could_ hurt others, of course he could. He remembered all these Death Eater meetings where someone brought a Mudbloods or eight and the whole meeting was adjourned with the accompanying screams of the tortured Muggles. Participation in throwing curses and jinxes was _strongly advised_ , otherwise you were called a coward and a weakling. Of course Regulus took part in those activities _("Uphold the Family name, Regulus, don't shame the House, Regulus, isn't their squealing annoying, like pigs, are they not, quieten them, Regulus"_ ).

He shook himself free of the memories when he heard his mother start talking again.

" _Regulus_ ," she crooned, nearly pressing herself against the canvas of her painting in her leaning forward, towards him. "My boy, my son, _returned_. Finally returned," her eyes were glinting, the streak of madness has never been so clear to him as it was right then, her smile stretching painfully from ear to ear, looking as if it could cut through Dragonhide.

He attempted a smile, failed and tried for a weak quirk of lips, up and gone the next instant. She certainly noticed, considering the look on her face, excitement and hunger clear in her wide eyes and an even wider grin.

"My son has returned from his mission. His mission which was assigned to him by our Lord. The Dark Lord himself," there was a dreamy look on her face that soon transformed into something more familiar to him. Her features stilled and then twisted and warped, her nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing. The corners of her mouth tugged down and she started turning red, a vein clearly visible on her forehead even under her grey hair. She laid her hand on her neck, where her artery was pulsing and soon she looked exactly as he remembered her right before she struck with her wand. She looked furious. "But the Mudbloods won, my son's mission was for nothing! BECAUSE THE MUDBLOODS CAME OUT ON TOP AND WE WERE _PUSHED ASIDE_! ALL THE TRADITION AND CULTURE, BURNED AND DISREGARDED BECAUSE THE FILTH THINK THEMSELVES _BETTER_ THAN US! THE PRESUMPTUOUS LEECHES! THEY DARE..." and off she went. Regulus stood there for a moment looking at her calmly, tiredness overtaking him. He glanced around quickly, noting all the eyes that were locked on his form, quiet now that they knew that it wasn't some random Mudblood that invaded their home but the rightful son of the Blacks.

He wondered what to do. Agree with his mother and spin a tale about some mission for the Dark Lord?

Or tell her the truth?

He pondered this while she ranted bitterly about the Mudblood supporters winning and came to a conclusion that he shouldn't hide it. She wasn't here anymore, she couldn't punish him, could only yell herself hoarse, if magical pictures _could_ , and... He considered the painting for a while, _and_ he was technically Lord Black now, wasn't he? He could take her down. The painting, that is. And if the spells were too strong for him (he doubted it, he may have been young for a Death Eater but he wasn't one of the grunts, that was Goyles and Crabbs, he was heir Black back then, and quite intelligent too, if he did say so himself, his Ancient Runes and Arithmancy were both his strong subjects, not that he was bad at many things with the possible exception of _Fortune Telling_ but that was hogwash anyway, only real Seers could see anything so teaching the Arts to normal wizards was a waste of time, and, possibly also, Herbiology, he never could be counted as someone with the green thumb, in fact, it was quite the opposite) he could always call on Kreacher. The elf would do his bidding, even if it was taking down a portrait of his old Mistress. He might consider it in bad taste (Regulus himself was slightly displeased with himself but at the same time couldn't really bring himself to care) but in the end, the old servant liked _Regulus_ , was his _friend_ , so he would do as asked.

But as he didn't want to deal with this quite _now_ , he decided to just go along with whatever elaborate scheme his mother cooked up for his absence and nodded along.

Then he interrupted, "Mother, I will certainly be willing to discuss the details of my mission," his mouth twisted in amusement. "But as you see, I'm currently in quite poor state and would like to refresh myself and rest for a while. It was a tiring journey," here he gestured gently to his hair and face and also his clothing.

His mother was quiet, silver eyes roving over his appearance, taking in all the purple, the painted face, the metal embedded in his ears and face and finally the Muggle jumpsuit. Her whole face scrunched up again and she looked ready to start yelling _again_ , this time at him not the Muggles, but then she took a deep, stuttering breath and managed not to. Regulus was seriously really impressed. It was a once-in-a-lifetime happenstance, his mother actually not screeching bloody murder and instead taking measured breaths and calming herself. He would certainly try to preserve this memory, maybe visit it later in a Pensieve in order to further marvel at it.

" _Yes_ ," she drew the word out like it was psychically painful for her to agree with him. "You are quite right. Do use the bathroom. I will not be having any sort of conversation with anyone who looks like such heathen. Even if it is my son," she sneered dismissively and Regulus dipped his head.

"Of course," _old hag_ , he added spitefully in his head. "Mother. I will, mother."

He waited a second longer and when she didn't say anything more, he gave her a curt nod and started climbing the stairs. Many eyes followed his ascend but their owners burst into chatter only when he disappeared around the corner. He snorted mentally, the paintings were always such gossips but with the addition of the Olds who he personally knew once upon a time, they were certainly having a field day down there.

He will see about that bath now, he deserved _that_ at least.

It seemed that Kreacher also cleaned up the bathroom and laid out the towels for him. The only thing left to do was prepare the bath. He did just that, filling the tub nearly to the brim and adding a few magical aromas and relaxants. Then he took off his shoes and the jumpsuit. When he was finally naked he walked over to the mirror to get a better look at his face and pull out all the metal piercings. After that, he finally stepped into the tub and allowed himself to relax for what felt like the first time in forever.

He sunk a little deeper and deeper, taking a deep breath and submerging wholly, he needed his face and hair cleaned too, after all.

* * *

...

* * *

When he finished soaking nearly an hour later, he walked to the mirror again and looked at himself. The makeup on his face was smudged but mostly gone. His hair wasn't sticking up all over the place now, instead lying flat, which may have been the effect of water dragging it down but it was still purple. He raked a hand through it and winced when he came upon a scab on the back of his head. He touched it gently, it was still a little tender but no longer hurt. He forgot all about it even though it was one of the first things that happened to him in this new life (that he _remembered_ ) when he woke up at that little flat. He felt embarrassment well up in him, he actually tripped in the bathroom when he saw his reflection, back then. His legs gave out on him and he fell, banging his head on the white floor tiles.

It was a surprise that he didn't black out from that. _Salazar_ , but he was so _clumsy_. Since when was he such a lumbering idiot? He experienced some accidents in his younger teens, when he was hitting growth spurts, limbs ungainly and suddenly too long, too different and heavy. But nothing on _this_ magnitude! He sometimes moved a little awkwardly but that was the extent of it. He didn't trip or slip or anything. He just didn't. So the slip in that apartment and here, with the coat hanger was a novelty for him.

His hand stopped prodding at the healing (and he _knew_ that magic was pretty mysterious and all but he didn't use any healing charms so the damage _shouldn't_ heal this quickly, it was a little unnerving but he wrote it off as some wandless or accidental magic) bump and he returned to the perusal of his body. It was coated in scars, all of them pale and faded but still there. He traced one carefully, across his throat, water slipping down his body and onto the floor as he didn't bother with a towel. It looked like someone tried to cut off his head but didn't quite succeed. The scar was thin but long, nearly from ear to ear and Regulus shuddered because it was a hit that was deadly. He may have died from this and he didn't even remember it.

He touched another one, over his heart, a stab wound if he got it right, puncture mark spanning two inches. From a knife? He turned around so that his back faced the mirror and looked at it. No, something longer, a sword perhaps (or a dagger?), he mused, more curious than anything. Someone run him through with a sword.

What an interesting day, he thought hysterically. By the time he finally pulled himself away from examining his body (he didn't even get to study all the scars in close detail, he didn't really have the strength to go over them and think about the cause for each one), he was dry, only his hair was still dripping the occasional drop of water.

He looked around and discovered that he had nothing to wear now. And as he wasn't about to grab the dirty jumpsuit and muddy boots and put them on, he glanced around for something that could be used instead. Kreacher didn't bring him any clothes but he wasn't angry about it, the elf was old and had quite a scare that day. And he cooked up such a feast, cleaned the rooms and was most likely _still_ cleaning up after the meal. He couldn't fault his friend because he himself didn't make a request for clothes to be brought to him.

He donned a fluffy, white bathrobe hanging by the door and grabbed a towel, lazily rubbing his hair, drying it. He carefully gathered his previous clothes and shoes, taking care in keeping them away from himself and the bathrobe as he didn't want to dirty either of the two.

He didn't have any slippers so he went barefoot, opening the door to the bathroom and slipping out. He made his way to his old room. It was a relief that on the way to his room there was next to none paintings. It was a small reprieve but a reprieve nonetheless.

* * *

...

* * *

He arrived at his room a moment later but hesitated before entering. It was his room, yes, but he was gone for a long time. Maybe it was remodeled and turned into a guestroom or even a storage? Distaste filled him at the thought and his arm snapped out to take hold of the doorknob. He pushed the door with a little more force than truly necessary, apprehensive of any changes his old room may have gone through.

His shoulders relaxed as his eyes landed on the inside though, and he felt himself becoming lighter. A small chuckle escaped past his lips as he took in the view.

Because absolutely _nothing_ changed. His bed was made, true, and he didn't remember doing it himself but Kreacher always did it when Regulus didn't get to. But his walls were filled with scraps of newspapers, pictures and singular pieces of information about the Dark Lord and his supporters. Most were innocuous, nothing that could incriminate him as someone who was digging too deep, looking into the Dark Lord's past, only some of the articles about raids on Muggle towns and killing Mudbloods themselves. Something that would indicate that Regulus was only a fanatically obsessed boy. The more important, more dangerous information was hidden, warded six way to hell and back and may already be gone. (He had some failsafes, one of them was that if anyone without his authorization tried to access the papers, all of them would be burned (the files, _not_ the person… but he may change that), there were backups and backups of backups but Regulus was pretty sure that any information he managed to scrounge wouldn't matter now anyway as Voldemort was already dead.)

His desk also looked to be untouched by time, papers and school assignments stacked together. An ink pot standing a little ways away, a quill lying beside it, sharp and ready to be used again. There was a course book open, he neared it and saw that it was Transfiguration Level Six, a bit of parchment rolled up beside it. He reached out and unfurled it and saw the beginnings of an essay about Animagi. He obviously didn't finish it. He pulled out his chair and sat in it heavily, feeling drained all of sudden. The bath took a lot of pressure off his back and shoulders but he could feel it setting back because, because _Salazar_. He didn't even finish _school_. Didn't even write his _NEWTs_. Didn't even get to sit his _end of the Sixth year exams_.

Curse it all. He didn't manage to finish his Hogwarts education. So what does he do now? Does he come back? Will he be _welcomed_ back? Or will they chase him off, alert the Aurors about the Death Eater and the Department of Mysteries about a new alchemy genius, maker of a new Philosopher Stone. Nicholas Flamell wannabe or something along these lines. Yeah, no.

Or was it too late for Hogwarts for him? Did all these years count and he would be deemed too old?

He snorted, shoving those thoughts away. For now, he would only worry about the near future, there was no use in thinking about maybes.

His bookcase was as he remembered, full, with mismatched books, scrolls shoved in every available space, with seemingly no order to the placement of the texts. He forbid Kreacher from arranging them in alphabetical (or any other kind of) order because while others may not see a rule to this (madness), he himself knew _exactly_ where everything was.

Besides that, the room was absolutely spotless. There wasn't even a speck of dust to be seen, apparently Kreacher took very good care of his things even after the elf was sure of his death. His heart swelled, that was one person that would always stand by him, no matter what, and Regulus could certainly appreciate that.

He ambled closer to his dresser, more than ready to hop into some comfortable clothes and get some shuteye. He opens the door to the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe and steps into it, the inside being magically enlarged. He dithers a moment, trying to remember where he put all his sleeping clothes.

* * *

...

* * *

When he emerges from the dresser it is with frustrated exhaustion that he dumps all his ripped sleeping shirts on the floor, them being too small to fit him property. It seemed he has grown a little in the time he was away. He looked down and pulled, irritated, at his trousers. They were too short now, ending two inches above his ankles.

He scowled, normally (not that growing a few inches in one night was _normal_ for him, magic was weird but it didn't work like that) he would have just gone shopping if he outgrew something. But he was tired and it was late, the shops most likely closed. Plus, he sneered, the fact that he was a Death Eater that came back from dead wasn't something that he needed to flaunt (yet). He could have just cast an enlarging charm at them (the way those who couldn't afford to buy new clothes, Blood Traitors such as the Weasleys, did, he shuddered) but he didn't have a wand on him. His was lost somewhere in that cave, amongst the Inferi. He wasn't too keen on getting back there, even if the goal was to get it back.

Then, the last option would be-

"Master Regulus," Kreacher, of course. The elf, bless him, seemed to become aware of his predicament in just a few short moments and immediately cast an enlarging charm on the powder blue garments. Regulus huffed a thank you and turned to the bed. He stopped though when he heard a choked sound come from his oldest friend. He turned, slowly and aching for rest, and cast his half lidded eyes on the elf.

"What is it, Kreacher?" He asked, crouching down and propping his arm on the floor, lest he plants his face in the wood. The elf was looking a little watery around the eyes again and he sent him an encouraging smile.

"Master Regulus is hurt!" The elf wailed, throwing himself forward and Regulus startled, hand immediately going to the back of his head. Kreacher stood before him, eyes glassy and nose running ( _again_ ) so he smiled awkwardly and lightly patted the elf on the shoulder.

"It's already healed, see? Nothing serious at all," he shrugged. It actually was healed. He didn't even feel it anymore. Kreacher looked unconvinced so he decided to indulge him. "Look, you can cast an examining charm on me but tomorrow, alright? I'm rather tired after the day we've just had." And he was, he could sleep for the next ten years (actually _no_ , take that back, he slept enough _years_ already, let's say, about, 12 hours, yes, he could sleep _the next twelve hours_ ).

He stood up and stumbled off in the direction of his bed, the covers conveniently pulled down so he could sit down immediately. He yawned, not even bothering with maintaining any etiquette besides half shielding his mouth with a lazy hand. He pulled his legs up on the bed and was immediately covered with his quilt. He glanced at Kreacher out of the corner of his eye, the other half of his face mashed into the pillow, and gave a sleepy hum, thanking for the assistance. The elf, standing in the doorway now, tipped his head and slowly closed the door.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep in seconds flat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary:** When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

 **Warnings:** Language, Reborn, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings, no Beta

 **Rating:** T

 **Word Count:** 5698

 **Author's Note:** A pretty shitty chapter, if I do say so myself. Nothing but clothes, shopping and a little Harry. Booooring. But I needed to introduce the two somehow and well. Some people complained that there's no Skull and only Regulus and I agree with that, yes, there's only Regulus but as the story progresses (will the stpry progress? i dunno), Skull will (i think?) be making an appearance. There are small glimpses of Skull around the story though. By the way, I failed my driving test yesterday. For the fourth time. Yeah, I feel like crap. I'm so sad cuz it costs quite a bit of money every time you try. And I'm not rich. And one mistake and you fail. Awful. Oh, and I read this story one more time and realized it was pretty shitty but I won't be going bavk and changing anything cuz I don't really wanna deal with the beginning again. Anyway. Enjoy.

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

* * *

When Regulus woke up, he felt like he had gone a few rounds with a Hippogriff. The assumption that sleep can solve anything and everything was not at all true, he thought blearily. He could quite clearly feel that his body was neither refreshed nor did he sleep well. He didn't actually know how long he slept, there was no clock in his room, he didn't have a wand to cast a Tempus with and even if he did, he still didn't know at what time exactly he fell asleep so he wouldn't be the best judge of that.

He was awake though, years of habits (the years he _remembered_ , at least) making him unable to fall back asleep. He knew that trying to fall back under wouldn't work, he simply needed to get up.

And so he did.

Leaving the comfortable confines of his bed proved to be quite a challenge. He didn't enjoy it one bit. After finally standing up, he discovered the slippers lying by the bed and quickly put them on. Kreacher really thought of everything.

He didn't bother changing, his clothes were too small and coming out dressed in them would only embarrass him further. He could imagine the paintings hooting and jeering and laughing already. Derision and amusement and disgust twisting their painted faces. It didn't matter that it was his family, in fact, it only made it _worse_ because they would have no reservations about holding back on their commentary. Not that they ever would hold back, stranger or not.

So he decided to avoid making a laughing stock of himself and just go in his pajamas. At least he could pretend that he simply didn't care about his appearance, confident. He owned this house, now. Along with a lot of other things, he was Lord Black, after all. He could go around his own house in his pajamas if he damn well pleased, he wasn't afraid of critique. And he was especially unafraid of cutting words that were said by his dead, portrait relatives. Yes.

With those motivational words he nodded to himself and started making his way out of his room and towards the stairs. He paused before he reached them though and turned on his heel starting down the hall again. He will go down there, there was no question about it, but first, he needed to deal with his full bladder.

* * *

...

* * *

He walked down those stairs like he owned them, he thought hysterically. Which, technically, he did. He really needed to get used to this. He could now behave as though he owns the house because he _does_ own it. _Nice_.

His mother screeched incoherently when she laid her painted eyes on him and a noise nearly escaped him. He didn't know whether that noise would have been a whimper or laughter and he was glad that he didn't get to know.

He greeted her cordially with a nod and a, "Mother, a lovely morning we are having," and moved down to the dining room when she didn't reply.

Kreacher has already laid out a traditional English breakfast so he sat down at the head of the table and started eating his bacon and drinking his coffee. After the meal, he curiously approached the kitchen from where he heard a few of Kreacher's hissing swears and some banging.

"Alright. What is going on in–" he stopped, his mouth open and his eyes wide as he took in the scene happening before his eyes. Kreacher was hopping on top of a lid which he placed on a pot on the stove, trying and failing to keep eight tentacles contained. The octopus' tentacles were gripping the lid tight and trying to sneak out of the pot. Kreacher was cursing and shoving the limbs back with a wooden spoon.

He sighed.

"Master Regulus brought food to the house, what kind of house elf would Kreacher be if he refused to prepare it and– Get in, you slimy–!" That was when the old elf finally spotted Regulus standing in the doorframe and his face lit up as he began babbling. "Master Regulus! Kreacher found the food Master has been ever so kind to bring with him in the _clothes_ ," here the elf spit the word like it was foul poison, "Master was wearing. So Kreacher decided to take it upon himself to prepare the dish!" Here he looked proudly down and smacked a tentacle with his spoon. A screech was heard from inside of the pot and Regulus winced.

"Ahh, Kreacher, my dear, I don't think the octopus was supposed to be eaten. I think it is a pet. Perhaps, even, _my_ pet," the small servant looked throughly disappointed but he did hop off the lid and to the floor. He looked woefully back at the stove and then at Regulus.

Then he dropped to his knees and started banging his head on the marble floor, croaking about punishment and stupid elves and ironing his hands later.

* * *

...

* * *

After stopping Kreacher from giving himself a concussion, Regulus wandered closer to the stove and peered at the pot from as far away as he possibly could and still see the thing inside. It was still disgusting and slimy, he didn't want it to suddenly touch him or something. Maybe it could jump, he shuddered, that would be frightening.

But he did say that it was probably his pet, it was in that apartment he woke up in, in a tank with a tiny fake castle. That served no other purpose but entertainment. He wouldn't place food in such aquariums. So it was a pet. Maybe not _his_ pet (highly doubtful, he acknowledged, as it was somehow cooing at him, a high pitched sound that would be annoying if some part of him hadn't somehow found it endearing, and the octopus was attempting to climb out of the pot and move in his direction) but he took it with him when he left for home and it was now his responsibility to either take care of it or give it back to its owner.

He remembered the flat, the fact that he was the only one in it and the sight that greeted him out the window (a dirty wall of a building next to his) and down (a filthy and smelly alleyway) and decided that if whoever who lived there wanted to take care of the creature shouldn't have left it alone with Regulus. Especially not for such a long time, and it _was_ a long time that he spent there, first looking at himself in the mirror and freaking out, then talking (crying) with Kreacher.

(He considered the possibility of it all being a prank of some kind, _stuffing Regulus in a muggle flat and seeing his reaction, wouldn't that be_ fun _?_ Sirius wasn't a Slytherin but he was creative with the best of them. Or maybe it was Bella who did it, she was both creative and cruel enough and didn't have a smidgen of humanity left in her after all the things she did for the Dark Lord. It may be his punishment after attacking the Dark Master's soul piece. But the scars on his body, his new height, his dead family and Kreacher all said a whole different story. Besides, Sirius may be cruel but he wouldn't go that far just to see Regulus freak out. _Probably_. And Bella was apparently dead. By one of the Weasley Family, he thought with disbelief, Kreacher was disdainful enough when he was telling the story that he believed the elf. Where he got that information from, Regulus had no idea but the little servant was always resourceful and clever, it was no surprise that he knew who killed who and in what fashion the killing was done exactly.)

(There was also a different possibility which was that his brain was conjuring all of it up. That none of it was real. Everything was only a dream of a dying man and in reality his body was sinking in that lake full of Inferi. But it was morbid and made him uneasy so he decided to trust that everything around him was, in fact, real. It was easier that way.)

He looked at the octopus flapping and squealing and sighed, "Kreacher, find a big translucent jar or something, big enough for this," he waved a hand in the direction of the pot. "To move around comfortably, fill it with water and put the octopus inside."

The elf nodded and snapped his fingers, vanishing and reappearing a moment later.

"Where should Kreacher put the disgusting slime ball thing, Master Regulus?"

"The living room is good, I think. The paintings will have something to talk about, besides the disgrace of the Wizarding World and filthy Mudbloods taking over," he said dryly.

"Yes, Master Regulus."

* * *

...

* * *

He needed new clothes, all his old ones were too small, he thought, standing in his walk-in wardrobe and looking around at the many robes he will never get around to wearing again. It was just as well, he never liked them all that much anyway, all big, flapping and irritating. Snape may have pulled the look well but that was because he was big, flapping and irritating himself so the robes only underlined those qualities. Snape was like an overgrown bat, really, he considered it, remembering the pursed lips, wrinkled nose, narrowed, beady black eyes and all the black around him. Yes, he may have pulled that look off fantastically but Regulus wasn't Severus (or the Dark Lord, _that_ was one other person who could pull the look off without any effort, he would look menacing even naked. _Especially_ naked. He shuddered.) and so he didn't know how to look relatively good and comfortable with fabric swishing around his ankles and nearly sending him crashing to the ground with every step. The robes were also often causes of deaths when a flapping piece of fabric got caught in something, be it a branch which stopped a person from moving (and consequently got the person in line of a spell and got the person dead) or a fire spell like Fiendfire which stopped a person from, well, everything, because the person was dead from being burned alive.

He never had any chartable thoughts about robes, they were simply impractical. He remembered time and time again when he got a sleeve of his robe caught in a potion or when the robes were the cause of a spilled bottle of ink. Impractical and irritating.

He wondered whether the Wizarding World's fashion changed in any way in the time he was away. Most likely not, it hasn't changed since sometime around the 18th century.

He almost resigns himself to wearing magically enlarged clothes (it was a dangerous thing, to wear such clothes because you could never be sure when they will revert back to their original form and _no one_ wants to deal with the public embarrassment of _that_ ) when he suddenly remembers that Sirius _did_ live here for quite some time a few years back. He _had_ to wear something, didn't he?

(A thought passes Regulus' mind about Sirius, emaciated and mad from Azkaban Sirius, running around the house butt naked, just because no one (their mother and father) could tell him otherwise. It was a pretty plausible thought and Sirius has always been pretty set on getting revenge where it's due. This type of petty act would satisfy him even more with how childish and simple-minded it is.)

With that, he made his way up the stairs to the topmost landing of the house, where his and Sirius' rooms were located, along with a bathroom they both shared. He was going to wear some of Sirius' clothes, how the mighty have fallen. (Although, he was never all that mighty, was he?)

Actually coming into the room proved to be rather overwhelming. The room was decorated in Gryffindor colours (grimace) and banners. There were also pictures of bikini-clad Muggle women and those muggle machines he remembered from the flat where he woke up in, motorbikes. He recalled the name from one of Sirius' rants about the ingenious and resourceful nature of Muggles, when he was in his rebellious phase and still at home. Their mother categorically forbid him from mentioning the Mundanes in such manner but not before doling out some punishment.

He wondered how Sirius felt when he put the pictures up in his room, spiteful to the very end and finally getting his way, even if it was after their mother's death. He steadfastly avoided looking at the scantily clad women. They weren't moving, magical pictures, thank Merlin but their bodies were practically on display and the little pieces of clothing left little to imagination. He felt his face burn, eyes turned down, looking at the floorboards with mortification. Even when he was dead, Sirius still somehow found a way to embarrass him.

He moved quickly to the wardrobe, the same one as his, opening the doors and striding inside. He only hoped the clothes inside will fit him.

There were clothes that fit him in his brother's dresser but they weren't Sirius'. They actually belonged to their father, he remembered seeing him in those suits. Regulus shook his head in disbelief, Siri wearing their father's clothes, how embarrassed and humiliated he must have been, he mused. Sirius must have grown out of his clothes from when he was sixteen and still living in the house (normal, as he was a man in his thirties when he came back) and decided that wearing their father's clothes was the best he was going to get.

It was all pretty understandable, what with Sirius being an escapee from Azkaban, a dangerous criminal to most of the Wizarding World, he couldn't really go to Madam Malkin's now could he? The corner of his lips tugged down, but so was Regulus, he couldn't go either because of it. (People could walk in robes with their hoods drawn up, it wasn't a crime, so he technically _could_ walk through the Alley. But it was bound to attract attention, especially now, after a war. It would remind everyone of the Death Eaters. Also, if he was to get measured for clothing, he would have to remove the cloak because how would they take his measurements while he was still in it. So, for clothing he would have to go somewhere else.)

He gazed at the suits hanging in his brother's wardrobe and steeled himself. He needed to make himself moderately presentable, somehow disguise himself (so that no one will recognize him), aquire a wand and get a read on the political scene of Wizarding Britain. As it was, he was flying blind. He needed to get his hands on some older papers and understand what was going on around him. Kreacher explained most of what he knew but the old elf wasn't all that interested in the politics so he would have to do it himself.

* * *

...

* * *

He still felt uncomfortable while looking in the mirror. It was him, yes, but the hair and the eyes freaked him out. At least it drew attention away from his resemblance to his brother and father but on the other hand, it _drew attention to_ _him_. Purple locks weren't exactly common.

He looked away from his reflection and down at the dark suit. It was all black, thank Merlin, he wouldn't have been able to handle red or even green, it would have clashed something horrible with the hair. Everything from the boots (dragonhide, a little big but otherwise perfect, well-worn), dress trousers, dress shirt and longish (nearly to the knee but that was fashion for you) coat was black. And a little too big but he could deal with it while he went out to buy essentials (the most important things, like wand and a whole new wardrobe of clothes). He hesitated, catching a few bangs and bringing them before his eyes, he needed something for his head, too. Lucky that there was a rack of old hats right there, another thing of their father, for sure. He finally settled for one of the least weird hats (there was one with a dead bird) and choose a simple black fedora, the rim wide and easy to hide behind and the ribbon around it a dark grey.

All in all, it looked good, not like he was a little boy wearing his papa's clothes at all. Maybe the shirt was a little loose in the chest and the sleeves were too long, the slacks too wide in the waist but it wasn't noticeable and a belt fixed the second problem.

He stopped by his room to get a leather messenger bag to store the goods in and was ready.

* * *

...

* * *

He went down the stairs and was met with hums and murmurs of approval. His mother was watching him like a hawk and he immediately looked up to her (painting). Her eyes quickly took him in and a not quite sneer appeared on her face. He panicked, she would say something, he knew she would.

Curiously, she kept silent and he cautiously moved past her, peering up at her painted form and then turning completely away when she still didn't say anything. He put the hat on his head, tucking as much of his hair under it as he could. The mirror by the front door helped and he turned around, looking out of the corner of his eye at the back of his head. The hair there was still visible but there was nothing he could do about it.

"Kreacher," he called out and the elf instantly popped into existence in front of him, looking eager to help. "I'm going out, to Gringotts and then to buy some necessities. I will call for you when I get the money and you will go to stock up on more food. Merlin knows that the feast you made yesterday and today's breakfast was from the preserved rations." He grimaced, even though the food was fresh with all the spells keeping it that way, he still preferred it when it wasn't tampered with. Magic didn't taste any which way (at least he thought so) but he rather liked when the food was fresh on its own.

As Kreacher nodded frantically to show that he understood, Regulus rubbed his neck and the short purple hair there, thinking what else the needed to do. He looked around and it became clear to him immediately.

"Ahh, and start cleaning the house. I think it's a little," he hesitated, not wanting to say that it was rundown because the old elf would start crying or pour hot water on himself or both. "It needs some redecorating," he settled on and now that thought stuck. Because now that he said it he seriously wanted to redecorate the old house. He gazed speculatively at the peeling wallpaper and carpet which was worn thin.

He shook his head, first things first. There was a near silent 'pop' and he lowered his gaze to Kreacher, not even noticing when the elf disappeared. There was a piece of long dark grey fabric in the elf's hands which the family servant extended in his direction. Regulus slowly reached for it and realized that it was a scarf. He touched the back of his neck where his hair was sticking out and looked gracefully at the elf, lips quirking up at the corners. He quickly wound the scarf around his neck and pulled it up so that it covered the hair and the lower half of his face, up to the tip of his nose. A few strands of purple still were there but they were hardly noticeable. He smiled behind the warm fabric and nodded at Kreacher.

"I will be going now."

* * *

...

* * *

He was actually pretty sure no one looked at him twice, it was cold so the scarf and the hat weren't that unusual. He thought he may have attracted more of the Muggles' attention than the Wizards', what with how they whispered about _"these hipster kids and their weird fashion"_. He had absolutely no clue what a hipster even was and wasn't sure he wanted to know.

When he got to the Leaky Cauldron, he carefully eased his way through the door, casually making his way inside. There was a crowd of people inside, drunk and hungover, after the yesterday's All Hallows Eve. He slipped by unnoticed and soon stood in front of an all familiar brick wall. He needn't have worried about not having a wand, his father taught him that all that was needed was magic and as the both of them took Ancient Runes while in school, they both knew how to transfer even small amounts of their magic without the use of a wand. (He was ever so grateful that it was his father who taught him that because while strict and cold, he was still calmer than his mother and didn't expect Regulus to do perfect on his first try. He could only imagine how his mother would have gone about teaching him something as difficult. She probably would have used a few curses, not one them _only_ verbal.)

He tapped the bricks and waited while the wall folded in front of him to make an entrance and as soon as it stopped moving he started at a brisk walk towards Gringotts.

He walked up the steps to the bank and moved towards the first teller he could find. He freed his mouth of the scarf, loosening it a little. Then he stepped in front of the creature and (even though his mother taught him that all are inferior to the might of a full-fledged, pureblooded wizard) inclined his head slightly, tipped his hat and murmured a, "Greetings."

He was eyeballed and got a sneered," Wizard," in return. Then the goblin leaned forward so he was nearly looming over Regulus and Regulus tamped down on his urge to inch away, he would not show weakness in front of all these strangers.

"I would like to regain access to my vaults," he said quietly so as not to alert anyone around him. The goblin looked at him carefully and tapped his gnarled fingers on the desk.

"And do you have your keys?" The creature asked and Regulus brought out his hand in front of him, presenting his wrist to the worker. The wrinkled face twisted in surprise but then quickly smoothed over (if something as already twisted _could_ smooth over) as the goblin brought out a roll of parchment and laid it out on his desk. He clicked his fingers and immediately a bubble of silence formed over them, privacy spell, Regulus relaxed. Next, he pulled out a thin silver needle out of nowhere and grabbed Regulus' hand in a firm grip. Then he used the needle to prick Regulus' thumb, where a fat drop of blood immediately welled up.

"Three drops," he was told simply as the goblin guided his hand over the parchment. They both waited a few seconds and when the required amount of blood was dropped on the parchment, the goblin released his hand and Regulus brought his thumb up to his mouth to lick the blood away. He didn't want his blood to start dripping all over the place and someone _using_ it. The fact that he allowed it to be used to identify himself was proof that he was desperate enough, he didn't want to announce his presence and the goblin knew it already, casting the privacy spell not only to prevent anyone from seeing that a Blood Spell was taking place (it was labeled as a form of Dark Magic because of the use of blood somewhere in Regulus' infant years, the Ministry of Magic was bonkers) but also to stop anyone from seeing what name came up on the parchment. They waited three minutes in silence, not moving much except to breathe.

Then, after three minutes there was an interested hum from the goblin and Regulus looked up to see the creature regard him with no small amount of curiosity.

"Lord Regulus Arcturus Black, your lordship has been restored and your vaults lay open to you," was all the goblin rasped. Regulus nodded, relief sharp but mostly hidden.

"I would like to make a withdrawal."

* * *

...

* * *

The future wasn't all that different, really, he thought as he was making his way to Ollivanders Wand Shop. The shops were, the products, fashion, flowers, potion ingredients were all the same. The only thing that changed was people, he didn't know anyone here. And the atmosphere, which was cheerful, people wandering around without a care in the world, nothing like the wary, quick walks he remembered from his own trips to the Alley, where everyone wanted to get their business over and done with and go home as soon as possible. Also, he looked at the window display he was passing by with admiration, the broomsticks. Those were _definitely_ different, he looked at the slick, dangerous-looking Thunderbolt and his fingers twitched, he wanted to ride one of these. He _needed_ to fly one of these, even if only once.

He shook himself as he entered the Wand Shop, the bells jingling above him. He looked around and the interior was more or less the same as he remembered, the shop in a perpetual state of disarray. There was a gasp from the front desk and he looked towards it to see Ollivander. The old man was more frail than he remembered, smaller and older, white hair thinner, silvery eyes wide. The stare was focused though, the man was as aware as Regulus has ever seen him.

"Ahh," the old wandmaker let out a gust of air, "A customer. I remember all the wands I have ever sold. Ten inches, yew with a core from unicorn hair, quite pliant. What brings you here, after so many years, Mister Black?" He asked softly, looking Regulus right in the eye and clearly not expecting a reply as he soon disappeared in the back of the shop to rummage through his supply of wands. Regulus came closer to the desk, cautious. Ollivander recognized him, that wasn't good, should he call Kreacher and give up on acquiring a compatible wand? He didn't expect an answer so when a loud, "Yes!" sounded from the back room, he startled away. He looked up when Ollivander emerged, clutching a box which he thrust into Regulus' hands, "Well, wave it!" So he did.

After ten minutes and six wands, one wand finally choose Regulus as its wielder.

"13 inches, blackthorn, dragon heartstrings core. Unyielding," the old man peered at Regulus with his silver eyes, a thoughtful expression on his face. "A lot of personality, I see. Some choices were made, experience was gained, how interesting. That will be eight galleons."

Regulus looked at him warily, wand clenched in one hand, other digging up the requires amount of money. He handed the gold over, twirled the wand in his hand and after a moment of hesitancy, asked for a wand holster to go with it. He paid additional ten galleons and strapped the holster to his right forearm. He was ambidextrous but his left forearm was Marked and he didn't fancy flaunting it around the shop even if there was no one here but him and Ollivander.

Through this entire process, the man watched him like a hawk and if Regulus thought his mother's (portrait) stare was unnerving, this one was downright terrifying. He stared back, though, all the while repeating Kreacher's name in his head so when the time came, the elf could come and get him in an instance.

Then, Ollivander smiled unexpectedly and said, "You need not worry. I won't say anything," and Regulus stared for a while longer before he inclined his head.

"Thank you," he murmured, clear and crisp but quiet. ("Do not mumble back to me! You don't need to be loud to be _heard_ but you need to be _understood_! None of this pitiful whimpering and mumbling! You are the son of the House of Black, and we _do not_ -!")

Then he stashed the wand in the holster, corrected his collar and fixed his sleeves. He put a hand on his hat and said, "Goodbye," before walking out of the shop.

* * *

...

* * *

He felt safer now that he had a wand with him but he still walked briskly and with purpose, wanting to make this shopping experience as short as possible. Next up, he thought, books.

He bought a few books about modern wizards and the Second Wizarding War. Also, after a few moments of hesitation, some (not that the ones about modern Wizarding World weren't) about Harry Potter. He passed on the Daily Prophet copies of the last decades because as much as he wanted to know everything, the newspaper was 1) often inaccurate 2) not always the best source of information, thanks to the censure 3)there were quite a lot of copies of the paper, as it was daily, Regulus simply didn't have time to read all of it. He needed clear facts, fast and concrete, no time for a thorough research. Maybe after he grasped the situation around the Wizarding Britain some more, he would indulge his academic side and buy the Prophet to conduct his own research but now was not the time. Besides, he rather guessed it would look suspicious, an unknown man buying forty years of the Prophet's papers.

So he bought the history books, mixed with some Arthimancy and Runes books, and after a thought, some paperwork about Magical Beasts. It would look less like he was researching something and more like he had variety of interests. Or like he didn't know what he was doing, that worked, too.

He stashed the books in his bag and went back out.

* * *

...

* * *

He let himself stop in front of the window displaying the Thunderbolt once again, the Seeker in him making him want to look at it again. He felt a smile creep onto his face as he looked at it, slim, dark wood, polished to the extreme, the brush at the end tightly packed and cut into a flattering teardrop-like shape, thin at the very end. Its name was carved into the handle in small, golden letters.

* * *

...

* * *

Harry sighed as Teddy tugged at his hand, leading him through the crowd of early shoppers and hungover pedestrians. He himself would be nursing a quite headache if not for a Pepper Up potion he took that morning. He loved the kid, he really did, but why does he feel the need to wake up so early in the morning and right after Halloween, too.

But he did promise him that they would go see the newest broom, released on the market just yesterday. Thunderbolt was said to be the fastest broom in the world and Harry himself wanted to see for himself if it was true. He shook his head, maybe for Christmas, he couldn't go around throwing money left and right (even if he practically could, because the Potter family was loaded rich and Harry inherited everything from them). He couldn't decide for whom he would buy it. Teddy, Ginny or himself? Maybe all three? That sounded about right.

They came closer to the shop and Teddy let go of his hand barreling forward and accidentally shoving past a man standing in front of the window. The man stumbled and Harry felt worry as he sped up to a light jog, but the stranger soon regained his balance. Harry trotted up to him, apology already on his lips.

"Are you alright? I'm so sorry for him. My godson got quite excited, he wasn't looking. Teddy, come here and apologize!" He called and the boy winced but walked quickly up to them, head hung.

"'M sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't mumble," was the absent-minded answer and Ted peered up at the man who was looking a little shell-shocked, staring at the boy's blue hair. "And it was nothing." He gripped the strap of a black, leather messenger bag tighter, looking around. Teddy cooked his head and looked underneath the brim of the hat covering the man's head and brightened.

"Hey, are you a Metamorphomagus, too?" He asked eagerly, bouncing in his toes. Harry looked sharply at the man who stiffened, Metamorphomagic was a rare ability, guarded closely by the family it belonged to, what a coincidence for Teddy to meet someone with it.

"Metamorphomagus?" The man repeated, flabbergasted. And then, "I-I must go," he said and started walking away, stride long and powerful, melting into the sea of other people before Harry could even think of stopping him.

Harry looked down at Teddy and instead of the bright blue hair, there was purple that greeted him instead. His eyes, now that Harry looked closer, we're purple too, as were his eyebrows.

"Is that how he looked like?" He asked and received a nod from his godson.

"I couldn't see his face cause of the scarf and his hair was hidden by the hat but some strands escaped and I saw them," the boy looked concerned for a second and then shrugged, turning away and back to the broom on the display.

Harry felt his own eyebrows rising, if that man wasn't a Metamorphomagus, Harry didn't know what he was. Maybe an accident with potion brought the colour? Harry felt pity for the man. That, or he didn't know about his talent. There was no way he looked like that _voluntarily_ , though. Probably. Maybe. Well, Harry himself never would have dyed his hair (and eyebrows!) like that. The eyes may be natural, what with Harry's own strangely bright emerald green orbs but the rest must not.

He shook his head and also turned his attention to the beauty of a broom before him. It was truly a spectacular workmanship.

His thoughts of the weird man faded to the back of his mind as he and his godson continued drooling overthe flying broomstick.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary:** When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

 **Warnings:** Language, Reborn, Black Family in general, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings, no Beta

 **Rating:** T

 **Word Count:** 3301 **  
**

 **Author's Note:** Nothing's happening. Boring stuff. Still don't know where this is going. Mistakes most likely everywhere. Point them out to me if you can. BTW, I failed my driving exam 7 times. I'm at this stage of grief and about desperate enough to hurl myself off a bridge. I spent so much money that I think I could have used it to bribe someone to get me the license _at least_ three times. I feel horrible. I cried in the bathroom in there for at least ten minutes. Thanks for all the favs and follows and reviews. It's nice to see that you guys like this story. Helps me get through my days.

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 **Chapter 6**

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The rest of his shopping out of Diagon Alley was as short as it was possible. A Notice-Me-Not charm was quickly thrown up, courtesy of his new wand, and the people around him didn't even look twice in his direction.

He really didn't want to spend more time in the Muggle London than he had to. He went to many stores buying clothes that his mother would have turned her nose at and burned to ashes with a sneer on her face. Trousers, shirts with short and long sleeves, sweaters, shoes, socks, underwear, everything. Trousers made of denim and some other named chinos or some such nonsense, some other ones made of soft material, slacks. He went to many stores trying not to attract attention and look anything _but_ like he was buying an entire new wardrobe. (The charm was waning a little because he needed to be able to ask questions if he wanted to know about something but still be utterly forgettable, indistinguishable. The people will know they talked to someone but they wouldn't recall Regulus, the conversation they had or his purchases and wouldn't be alarmed by that but will just carry on with their lives. Hopefully.)

He promised himself that he was going to look for a tailor soon. Because the displays of some shops he passed showed some interestingly cut suits. The suits were... Tighter, trousers especially, but better looking, too. He didn't know if it was because it was quite some time since 1978 or if the Muggles had those back then and he didn't care. He was getting a whole closet full of them as soon as he settled a little in this life. For now, he just contended himself with looking at them.

As much as he wanted to get himself something more formal to wear, he knew that having a fitted suit would be better than just taking some off the racks and throwing it into his purchases. A shame but Regulus wanted his formal clothes to not only look acceptable but also be comfortable (with maybe additional place for the wand holster in the sleeve).

He also found himself admiring the ties (they were different too, all thin and short, everything seemed to be slimmer and more fitted, future looked to be a pleasant place all around, with no Dark Lords and better suits). The clerk was so unfocused that he half-unconsciously gave Regulus a card to a local tailor who was apparently the best one in London and, well, Regulus would just have to make sure that that's true. But that's later.

He was actually disappointed when he looked up to the sky and saw that it was getting dark, he wanted to spend some more time browsing through these amazing Muggle inventions called _sports_ _shoes_. (There were all kinds of shoes too, for running, for sports (every sport needed different ones, apparently), for a normal walk, for climbing, _everything_.) He went home with black ones, named after a Greek goddess (Nike, Goddess of Victory, appropriate) which were the softest and most comfortable shoes he has ever had the pleasure of wearing, packed in a box. The rest of his purchases were carefully stored in his bag, which was charmed to be bigger on the inside so it easily contained all of his goods and was also extremely light.

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He walked with a renewed, full Notice-Me-Not charm hastily shielding him from every eye. He needed to be careful when going home, someone could be following him. It was unlikely but still a possibility and Grimmauld Place was without much protection, so he had to be careful. He needed to renew the wards and put it under the Fidelius as soon as possible.

He went in and was immediately greeted with the sight of Kreacher scrubbing at the old, dark floors. The musty smell mixed with plain soap assaulted his nose and he blinked a few times. Then, he smiled at his friend and greeted him with a nod while the elf bowed deeply, waved his bony hand, making a gesture in the direction of the dining room.

"Master Regulus, Kreacher did as ordered and went shopping for food. It has been prepared already, is it to be served, Master Regulus?" Regulus nodded, he wondered how much food Kreacher bought knowing that the elf was a little excited when he called him to Gringotts to give him a pouch of galleons.

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As he sipped his tea that evening he noticed that it was a little weird. It seemed that Kreacher added sugar to the pot. He stared down at the brown liquid, swirling it idly in its cup but after a few moments he ignored it and downed the rest of it.

Regulus usually took his tea without any sweeteners, with a drop of milk. Because while he enjoyed pastries and desserts like every other person, he preferred his tea this way. Especially as he drank his it with some sweets on the side.

He frowned but didn't think to mention it. It wasn't like it bothered him all that much. It was just tea, after all.

After eating, he settled in his room with the books and began the long way to finding himself in this bizarre new century.

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Regulus didn't spend _all_ his time catching up on everything that happened since he nearly died, he also began working on the wards surrounding his home. He remembered, after all, that he was vulnerable, an easy target for anyone who may try to break in. Only after finally casting a successful Fidelius, with himself as the Secret Keeper, did he start relaxing and really diving deeper into the intricacies of history.

A few days went by with Kreacher puttering about the house and Regulus with his nose in the books, making notes and ordering new ones via Kreacher (who was ecstatic at the chance at helping Regulus in any way so Regulus didn't feel bad about tearing him away from work).

Some of the books Kreacher came back with from the bookstore were questionable and Regulus really didn't know where exactly the elf acquired "Magick Moste Evile" but was certain it didn't come from Flourish and Blotts. The thick tome also didn't come from the Black Family Library, Regulus would have known _all_ about it otherwise. For once, he really wasn't the most social child, he liked his books and a truly admirable amount of time cooped up in the library. And secondly, his mother certainly wouldn't have sat silent on such an interesting subject. She would have had Kreacher read the book to him and Sirius for a bedtime story, he thought amused. Or, better yet, she would have read it to them herself.

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The little octopus was growing on him, he spent his free moments in the living room, devouring texts and glancing at it from time to time. The thing was perfectly happy in its giant glass aquarium, magically enhanced on the inside and a little castle in the center of the tank (which Regulus was pretty smug about, he created it himself, with a bit of magic so that it was also bigger on the inside).

The little red thing was fascinating to look at and kind of sweet as long as it stayed on the other side of the glass from him.

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Some nights he dreamt of strange, multicoloured fire that didn't burn and, oddly enough, colourful pacifiers.

The few books about Divination and Seers in general that somehow were lying about in the Black library were of no help whatsoever.

 _"Stupid Lackey,"_ Regulus gasped, phantom pain pulsing through his head as he remembered the feeling of a heavy leg kicking him there. He sat up in bed, rubbing the back of his head, sweaty and rumpled.

* * *

.

* * *

 _"Go and bring us some drinks, Lackey. I want espresso."_

 _"Sports drink for me!"_

 _"Me as well."_

 _"Muu, strawberry milk will do."_

 _"Oolong tea, please."_

He gritted his teeth as the memory resurfaced. Who did those kids think they were. What was worse was the fact that from his point of view, he could only watch helplessly and rage on the inside but not actually interact with the outside. Instead, his body nodded frantically and scrambled to do as ordered.

He moved around the stacks of books, eyes jumping between titles, hoping to see a specific one. He found what he was looking for after a few minutes and huffed a breath on its cover, blowing the dust off. With time he found quite a few others. "Art of the Mind", "How to Extract Thoughts of Your Enemies and Shield Your Own", "Do Not Lose Your Mind or Memories and How to Manage Them" and a few others.

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Occlumency. Legilimency. That was the branch of magic he knew would be helpful to focus on. It was _all_ the books talked about.

It was unfortunate that Regulus once tried it already and discovered that he had zero natural talent for either of those two. He was a Death Eater and those were no slouches (at least, in his times), yes, and Voldemort wasn't able to stop him from going after the Horcrux but that was mostly due to the fact that Regulus didn't dare look the Dark Lord in the eye or act in any way rebellious in the man's presence.

He usually kept his head down and only finally decided to act when Kreacher came back to him half-dead. That was an impulsive thought, he put the plan into motion in just a few days, after all. The information he gathered through the years was in the end useless, as he didn't get to out Voldemort as a Half-Blood and went after a piece of his soul without telling anyone (besides Kreacher but he swore the elf to secrecy).

All in all, Regulus managed to hide his digging in the Dark Lord's past only by a great deal of luck and some not-bad-at-all acting. Because he _could_ act if his life depended on it. And it did, back then. So he acted the way of a starstruck fanboy, Pureblood fanatic, perfect Black heir, ecstatic to be meeting his idol. He avoided eye contact, kept his head bowed and his voice reverent. He knew how to please others, had a while life to practice, what with his parents demanding it of him practically from the time he started to understand basic sentences. Maybe even before that.

The books he had at his disposal in the Black library were all good and useful but they weren't able to tell if he was doing something wrong and if so, what. They weren't able to think up a different approach to the problem if one way didn't work for him.

Books were, after all, just that, books. That's why they always insisted in the beginning on getting a teacher, a mentor, someone to guide. But Regulus didn't have anyone who he could trust with his secrets, not mentioning his mere _existence_. He didn't have anyone, period. It was unfortunate that Kreacher didn't know the art.

So it was that he resigned himself to getting memories at the rate they kept coming, which was slow going. He didn't have time for meditation anyway, he had too much to do right now.

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* * *

Most of these memories were flashes, quite jumbled and difficult to make sense of. For example, one was of a group of seven adults and the next a group of seven, eerily similar (even their clothes were a replica of the ones they wore a memory before) toddlers surrounding him.

From that alone, he assumed that the memories trickling through weren't shown to him chronologically because, well, it was rather illogical to assume that adults were reduced to toddlers. There were spells that could make somebody look younger and there was, of course, the Polyjuice Potion but judging from these people's clothes and other... accessories (three of them had Muggle guns, and two of those three were dressed in some type of Muggle military garb, one had some type of device in his hands, probably electronic (Regulus wasn't a complete moron, even if his parents forbid him from attending the Muggle Studies, he knew enough to get by, most likely) and others were just strange).

One of them, maybe two, had the appearances of magic users, though. One was dressed in robes covering their features and could somehow _levitate_. Flying without a broom was impossible in the Magical World, only the Dark Lord ever managed unaided flight before. The other one was a woman (although she came in different forms, once she was pregnant, once a child, once a younger woman and once a little girl, he had the strangest feeling that it wasn't even the same person but the hair, the eyes, the mark on their cheek and the giant white hat was the same. Also, the sense about them was the same, too, warm, welcoming, _knowing_ ).

Also, these people's hair was interesting enough. There was one with blue, two with green and one with strange, spiky black hair with curly sideburns that made him nearly mistake the man as one of the Potter Family bastards (because he knew at least about Harry Potter being the last of the Potters and James Potter didn't have any siblings or cousins (aside from the Blacks, from his mother's side)).

So it was that Regulus wasn't even certain that none of them were _wizards_. They were complete unknowns. That made them doubly dangerous. The feats he remembered them performing were nigh impossible and Regulus chalked most of them either to his imagination or a potion (or something that alters the reality or one's _perception_ of reality) because a toddler being able to defeat adults was something highly improbable.

(But improbable didn't mean impossible, he thought bleakly. That meant he had next to zero clues and ideas about what went on around his body while he was away.)

Instead of dwelling on the impossible feats performed by children, he focused on the history and what exactly transpired while he was out of commission.

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* * *

He caught up on modern magical history, seeing that Kreacher's tale checked out (not that he doubted the elf, he was just aware that sometimes Kreacher could get a little overexcited and _may_ have gotten some facts mixed up) with what was written in the book. There were also some pictures and at that Regulus pulled up short.

Because there was a picture of a young boy, about Regulus' age (not the middle forties, the teenage years) staring up at him with a frown on his face from the page about Harry Potter and his victory over Voldemort. A boy with short, messy black hair and light eyes (he was unable to tell the colour, the picture was black and white) with a scar on his forehead. The _same_ boy, man rather, who Regulus met in the Alley some time ago.

He frowned, so that was Harry Potter. The man didn't look that much older than the one in the photo. He hummed distractedly and closed the book.

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* * *

Regulus remembered the small child with blue hair pointing out that he was a Metamorphomagus and promptly began researching it. He finally read something other than "Modern History of the Wizarding Britain" and "Wards and How to Avoid Being Blown Up by Ones".

He delved into the Black Library, vaguely remembering that there were once wizards with this particular ability in the Family. Some two hundred years ago. His mother boasted about it enough for him to remember.

It's turned out that yes, there were Blacks with this ability and, to his immense relief, they left some journals behind when they passed on.  
He picked up the thick handwritten journal belonging to one of the Blacks who possessed the ability to change his appearance. A Metamorphomagus.

So it was that while Kreacher went around the house and kept Regulus fed, Regulus himself worked on changing himself. In the most superficial way.

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Regulus was careful with his newfound ability to change his appearance and still slipped when he felt emotional enough but he practiced every day and was pretty sure that his appearance would hold if he went out.

He finally looked into a tailor and had an assortment of suits ready for him in his wardrobe. He didn't even need to use a strong Notice-Me-Not charm, his purple look was gone, replaced by the typical Black hair and eyes. It was distinguishable but still more forgettable than purple colouring.

He couldn't bring himself to abandon his heritage by morphing his face into someone else's features. He knew it probably wasn't smart but he couldn't find it in himself to stop. It was his face and after such a long time, he ("Be proud of who you are, Regulus!") wanted to be _himself_.

His mother's portrait didn't get to complain when he explained that the different style of the suit was just fashion. She grumbled but relented, Blacks needed to maintain their image, after all. Appearing in something less than last trend would be unacceptable. He didn't mention that it was Muggle fashion, thank Merlin she didn't have the means to check it. She was, after all, a painting. (And yet he still sought her approval and feared her rage.)

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Time passed and before he knew it, nearly two months flew by and Yuletide was upon them.

In that time, Kreacher has become somewhat, Regulus hesitated, not knowing how to describe his friend's recent behavior. _Strange_ , is the word he settled on but it still didn't wholly encompass the way Kreacher sometimes forgot to add milk to the afternoon tea (the horror, it was a probably good thing that of the Blacks only Regulus lived, his mother would have had the old elf's head hung on the wall by the time he finished croaking apologies). Or how he jumped from one activity to another, one moment doing the dishes and the next on his knees, scrubbing the floors. The elf also, sometimes, forgot _when_ he was and _who_ he was with, dissolving into hysterics and sobbing, or muttering and scowling. He sometimes wailed about his _"poor Mistress, having to endure the presence of filthy Blood Traitors and Mudbloods in her Ancestral House"_.

Regulus found that ignoring it was the best method of dealing with it. He would soon find out that it may not be so.

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Yuletide was coming. He decided to make his move before the holiday and come back to the apartment where he found himself in, nearly two months ago. He forced his hair and eyes to change into Black hair and eyes, and was soon looking like Regulus Black, only slightly older, taller, with more scars and more darkness hiding behind his calm facade.

He dressed to the T. He picked a black suit, white shirt and a slim black tie along with some truly comfortable boots. (All Muggle, he still wasn't sure about going into the Dragon Alley, even if he could change his appearance at will now.)

He waved off Kreacher's concern and the elf still looked doubtful but dutifully held out his wrinkled, trembling ( _old, he was really old_ , Regulus shunned that thought aside) hand for Regulus to hold onto so he could Apparate them to the flat. Even though Regulus knew how to Apparate and had his license, he doubted a criminal listed as dead teleporting himself to Italy would be welcomed. Besides, it was a long way and house-elf magic was insanely strong, Kreacher could make it to a place a whole country and some away while Regulus was rather sure he would end up splinching himself.

He needed clues, though, and he had enough sitting around. He got all the information he could sitting, time to strike out on his own.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Summary:** When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

 **Warnings:** Language?, Reborn, Black Family in general, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings, no Beta

 **Rating:** T

 **Word Count:** 4108

 **Author's Note:** Didn't think I would post again any time soon but here we are. Wanted to get it out on my birthday on the 18th but my laptops aren't responding well to being nearly 10/11? years old and so I couldn't edit this shit. (For your info I write every story on my phone first so this chap was done for some time, I just couldn't more or less post it in its chopped state, I need to see the whole thing and I need a laptop for that so ya, whatever). To be truthful with you, I tried reading this story from the beginning again and decided it's absolute shit xD Don't even know why you like it.

AND, the most important: I maaay have fucked up but those who were reading _carefully_ (like, really fuckin carefully, basically - no one, I don't know XD) will know (I guess, maybe) that: Regulus awakens - 31s October, Arcobaleno visit his flat after X-mas somewhere after the New Year, and _everything_ I write about Regulus doing in the past few chapters have been _between_ Halloween and Yule. So, I may have just lead u all the wrong way but it wasn't intentional, I swear. Just, when writing a story you have to be careful with dates but I still didn't know where I was going then so guess you will just have to deal. Maybe I should just write the date at the beginning of every chap... Will think about it.

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 **Chapter 7**

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They reappeared in the apartment within seconds, the travel taking slightly longer as it was a longer way than Wizards normally Apparated. Regulus looked around at the dusty flat and wrinkled his nose. As much as he wanted to know what in Merlin's name his body has been doing these past years, he didn't feel particularly comfortable in a Muggle household. _Even if_ the house in question belonged to him. Or, his _body_. The one who moved his body through the years. Whatever.

He didn't really know what to look for. What clues should he watch out for. He decided to start simple and just looked around, taking in the apartment in a different light. Without panic, without fear, focusing on the parts that seemed important.

Alright, motorcycles were obviously a part of his former (body thief's) life. That he could work with. He started moving, making his way to the bedroom.

He didn't find much. There weren't even any Muggle books, nothing that would point to his identity. Nothing that would pinpoint his character. Nothing to tell him what kind of person inhibited this body for the past decades.

He sighed, walking back out, he knew there was only bathroom left and he wasn't too positive that he would find anything but he went there anyway.

There was a used towel on the ground, dry because it wasn't used for nearly two months.

He opened a few drawers, finding some toiletries and a big white box with a red cross in the middle. He opened it to find gauze, bandages, scissors and a lot of other things that Muggles used in place of spelling the wounds away or pouring potions over them. There were some syringes and a lot of pills, probably for pain. He carefully closed the box and hefted it up with some difficulty, it was not only huge but also _really_ heavy.

His past self must have been really clumsy to need that much materials for treating wounds. Or just really unlucky. He put the kit away.

He turned and startled when he saw Kreacher standing in the doorway, watching him. Unfortunately, his body's reaction to surprises was to jump back. His legs came on the towel, one stepping on it, the other catching in its tangled form. He tried tugging his leg free in his panic and immediately regretted it when it unbalanced him and sent him crashing to the ground. His breath caught, his head banged on the tiled floor and his eyes watered.

" _Master Regulus!_ " Was uttered with horrified fear and he lifted his head up, looking at the elf. Merlin, he was so clumsy. The world was swimming, though.

"I'm alright, I'm good. Don't worry about it, Kreacher," he waved the elf off, sitting up despite the pain and trying to calm his friend down. From the distressed look on Kreacher's wrinkled face, it wasn't working as well as he hoped.

To trip in the same bathroom, twice. It was an embarrassment. Lucky no one saw it. He didn't remember himself being so uncoordinated back then at school, this body was bigger though, maybe he wasn't used to it quite yet? Or it was just his particular kind of luck.

Sirius would have had a good laugh if he saw him like this. Thankfully, he wasn't here. Because he was _dead_. Siri may stuff his opinions to himself wherever he currently was, he thought, in whatever form he was. He knew that ghost or not, his elder sibling would _still_ find Regulus falling down unbelievably hilarious and make some joke about it, such as, maybe _"Falling from grace, Reggie?"_ or make some other, equally idiotic jab at his temporary clumsiness.

"Master Regulus is _bleeding_ ," said the horrified servant and that made Regulus go silent.

He let the house-elf bustle him to the sofa in the living room and cast a healing Episkey and wrap his head in the bandages from the kit from the bathroom.

He sat for a while more and let Kreacher fuss about him before carefully getting back up, smiling faintly despite himself at the disgruntled expression on the elf's face. He ignored the shaky hands of his friend with only a passing look and some unease deep inside but didn't say anything, carefully avoiding his gaze.

"We can go home now. I don't think there is anything here that will give us much clues," he looked around with resignation and actually pulled up short when he noticed something he didn't think about earlier.

There was mail lying at the floor at the foot of the front door. He came closer, anticipation building up and crouched to gather it all up. There wasn't much, just three envelopes.

All of them were addressed to a _Signor Skull de Mort_.

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Immediately after they arrived home, Regulus tore into the first envelope and was immensely disappointed when all it came with was a magazine about the same machines that Sirius loved and that Muggle apartment had so much pictures and other magazines (and an actual real one) of, motorcycles. The second envelope contained the same magazine, only this one was marked as from November to the first one's December. All in Italian, of course but Regulus wasn't an ignorant and illiterate man, _of course_ he knew Italian.

He was aware that it would benefit him to know many languages and his parents knew that too. They agreed on this at least, and Regulus learned as much foreign tongues as possible.

(There were things they _didn't_ agree on, for example learning how to use the three Unforgivables by making him practice them. On Muggles. But Regulus didn't really let them know that he didn't agree with that type of schooling because that would inevitably make _him_ the one his mother practiced _her_ curses (which were really perfect, he didn't know _why_ she needed to practice _that one_ , it was so painful that not using it for a while certainly wouldn't take anything from its strength, _really Mother_ ) Cruciatus on.) on.

Finally, the third envelope contained something useful. An invitation. He read it quickly and sat back in his armchair. A ball was hosted by a _Vongola_. It could lead to more information about what his body has been up to for the past several years. Maybe he could show up there and demand some answers...

No. It would be a monumentally bad idea. He didn't know this _Vongola_. He didn't know who was invited, he doubted he would have had an easier time if he knew the names of others guests as most people nowadays are complete strangers to him. The only ones who would know him now would be his professors from Hogwarts (he didn't know if they still taught there or even if they were still alive) and his former associates (whom were most likely dead, in prison or in hiding).

Going to a party in a foreign country, not knowing anyone, not _remembering_ anyone (while some obviously remembered him, or rather the him from a few months ago) or anything, even himself, was calling for trouble.

He shook his head, no, he wouldn't go anywhere near this party. Celebrating Yule was considered a family occasion (not that it stopped the Malfoys from throwing a giant party every year to show off their wealth and other purebloods from fawning over them (or being jealous of them) but still going to the celebration).

The Blacks, on the other hand, always politely refused the invitation, citing family traditions and obligations to the Blood but in reality it was just a time in the house to sneer and snipe at the Mudbloods, the Mudblood Lovers, the other Purebloods, the poor, the wealthy _and_ each other. Regulus was almost relieved that he wouldn't have to spend his Holidays that way ever again. Instead, he could do whatever he wanted and include Kreacher in it, not worrying about his family ridiculing and cursing either of them for this.

Also, his birthday was on the 25th of December. He did not want to spend it away from home. (And from Kreacher who was really starting to worry him.)

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Kreacher made delicious dinner on the 24th. There was a tiny mishap where the elf added salt to the tea and served a cheesecake for dessert despite the fact that Regulus' probably _least_ favorite cake was cheesecake. Regulus ate every last bit that was placed on his plate and complimented it within an inch of his life, cautiously adding that he adored cheesecake while watching the elf sharply. He remembered that Kreacher _never_ gave Regulus any cheesecake because the elf knew that Regulus would prefer _anything_ else instead.

He knew it. But the servant still glowed and bowed and muttered, "Master's favorite pastry, Master _said_ , Kreacher _remembers_ ," which it definitely was _not_ and which Regulus did _not_ say. Ever.

His _father's_ favorite cake was cheesecake, though.

Regulus tasted every dish and declared each one a smashing success. Even if some were too spicy or if there were ingredients in them that normally were not added. The house-elf made too much food too, _much too much_ , as if he forgot that it was only Regulus now. There was enough to feed the entire Black family, extended relations and all.

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Regulus looked at Kreacher from where he stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning on the doorframe. The elf was frantically running around, making cake, presumably for Regulus' birthday the next day. There was an almost nervous energy about the old servant, making him stumble about, mutters riding and falling in volume. He was making strawberry cake.

Regulus was _allergic_ to strawberries.

Grey eyes narrowed, and, unknown to him, a hint of purple entering them as a frown appeared on his face. Seeing the slightly longer strands of hair in front of his eyes start to turn violet, he took a deep breath and let it out after a few seconds. He repeated the action a few times and raked a hand through his locks, now pure black, smoothing them back and most likely only succeeding in making his messy hair stand up in an even more ridiculous way.

He was worried about the elf. He stopped himself from saying anything, knowing that if Kreacher heard his concerns the elf would most likely attempt to punish himself in some way for disturbing his Master.

He pushed away from the door, quietly making his way away from the kitchen. He made some mental math, Kreacher was the Black family's servant for quite a long time. Regulus didn't know _how_ long exactly, several generations, at least.

He was perfectly aware that the Blacks usually bought new servants _before_ they started mistaking the amount of sugar that is to be added to their Master's tea (he winced) _and_ talk to themselves. But Kreacher now added salt. _And_ talked to himself constantly, _even before_ all this mess happened. For as long as Regulus knew him probably. The elf was always muttering something to himself, about his responsibilities, about Blood Traitors, about Sirius breaking their mother's heart.

Which, Regulus had to admit, his brother _did not_. Their mother was furious though, but it was merely that. Anger and frustration and the typical Black Madness making it sharper, more focused and all the more dangerous. Regulus didn't think she was even capable of having a broken heart because he doubted she was capable of _love_.

He never voiced this opinion out loud. If Sirius, who was far away and, consequently, not nearby for their mother to point her wand at, was shaping up to be a scaping goat, who was Regulus to refuse him. If that got the negative attention focused only on his brother, he was perfectly capable of keeping quiet, cherishing the more civil and agreeable side of his mother and leaving as soon as he saw her temper getting the better of her (he left her presence fairly often, in that case, always desperately casting around for an excuse to get away).

After Siri ran away she didn't punish Regulus as often as before, too, he was the only heir now, after all, and Sirius was the cause of all her problems too, so as long as Regulus didn't get in her way and kept doing whatever she wanted him to, she didn't have a reason to take it all out on him in absence of his brother. But even if she didn't have a reason to, he wasn't really safe from her wrath and sudden bouts of random cursing. Neither was Kreacher as he was usually the one she took her frustration out on, he winced.

Usually, the old elves were killed by some curse thrown at them from one of the family members, their heads were then cut off and hung on the wall. Regulus didn't like thinking about the wall. He knew that Kreacher looked at it as his final goal in life. He also knew that it was a miracle that Kreacher lived for so long. Not only did Kreacher live nearly fifty years as their house elf, he was still, after many years, _somehow,_ here. Even without a Master or a Mistress for so many years, he _still_ served the Family.

House-elves in general were rather resilient but they weren't immortal. He knew that the heads displayed in the house were those of elves that were thought as too old to fulfill their responsibilities. He knew that Kreacher was supposed to be killed around the 1980s, he was already old back then.

And Regulus was expected to take over as the next head of the family by then. Buying a new house-elf would signify a completely new reign.

But then he wasn't around anymore, Sirius was in Azkaban, as was Bellatrix, Cissy was already married and off in Malfoy Manor and Andy was away with her Muggle. Half of the Olds died off when Regulus was still at school, the rest after he disappeared. And they wouldn't have been allowed to order the house-elf around anyway as they weren't of the main family, his mother would never have allowed them to.

Kreacher was old. A little mad too, he admitted, if only to himself, but who wouldn't be, after living with his family for so long, he thought dryly. Enduring the jeers, the hexes, the Crucios, Regulus' _death_ , his father's which happened the same year as himself and his mother's in 1985 and then the loneliness for a long time, until Sirius escaped from prison. Next was also Sirius' death but Regulus was rather sure that Kreacher wasn't too bothered by _that_ one. And then, finally, the war and the years after that followed must have been just as bad.

His mother would say that the servant's time is due, in less sensitive words of course, more expletives and a cutting curse thrown at the end of her rant at the thin neck of the house-elf. Regulus felt relief that his mother wasn't around to do that anymore.

* * *

...

* * *

He looked around as he made his way up the stairs.

Kreacher has been cleaning the house since Regulus came back but, he swiped the banister with a finger and winced when he saw it came back with a layer of dust on it. _But_ , despite Kreacher's claim of cleaning, the house was in ruin. Well, maybe it wasn't _as bad_ but, he looked around at the glum and mold and dust. He knew for a fact the there was also doxie infestation in nearly every room he kept closed and probably a Boggart or two hiding somewhere around the house in the shadows.

Kreacher's job was to get rid of these but, as it seemed, he heard high-pitched noises coming from the curtains he passed by, the elf was not doing his job.

Maybe it was just the house itself, he mused doubtfully. But no, he remembered that in his younger years, in spite of the dark atmosphere, there hasn't been any cobwebs and the house was kept in relative cleanliness. He looked at the peeling wallpaper, the creaking stairs, dirty and worn thin carpet and felt concerned despite himself.

"You need a new servant, so it would seem," he heard from one of the portraits and looked to it, seeing his aunt Cassy who was looking down her nose at him, silver eyes narrowed. She sniffed at his inquiring look and continued. "This one is, as you may have noticed, no longer in a state to take care of the house. He has grown old and useless, the House no longer abides by him."

Regulus had no idea what his old aunt was talking about so he looked at her apologetically,"I'm truly sorry, great aunt Cassiopeia, but I'm not quite sure I understand. You're saying the house won't listen to Kreacher because he's old?"

The old crone snorted inelegantly, "Is that what it's called? Kreacher, a fitting, if not _dull_ and completely unimaginative name. _Yes_ , the servant's powers have waned, his Magic grew old and weak. It's not worth keeping anymore. You should look into buying another one and get rid of this one," and with that said, she nodded at him sharply and walked out of her frame, traveling further away from him. The last thing he heard was her calls of "Pollux! Pollux, brother dear-" before he started making his way further up the stairs.

* * *

...

* * *

He tried thinking about something else as he climbed to the topmost landing, where his and Sirius' rooms were. That, unfortunately, immediately reminded him of his brother and didn't help elevate his gloomy mood in the least.

His mind latched onto the subject and refused to let go though. He remembered what Kreacher told him and what he pieced together from his mother's journal, which he found in the master bedroom when he was cautiously looking around. There was _quite a lot_ written about the Muggles or rather _Mudbloods_ and why they were inferior.

There was a lot of mad rambling all around, in that diary.

There was also a lot about Blood Traitors in which his mother mentioned everyone, from Sirius the runaway Mudblood lover, and Andy who _married_ a Mudblood, to Marius - the squib, Phineas - the Mudblood supporter and even to _Isla_ who married a Mudblood.

Sirius was especially expanded on, as was Uncle Alphard who left him his own gold.

The one relative that simply _adored_ Sirius and his sense of humor and Gryffindorish behavior, he thought bitterly. Kreacher told him about how Uncle Alphie left Sirius some inheritance, which their mother apparently blasted him off the Family Tapestry for.

That was how Sirius continued living after escaping from Azkaban, he found out, the members of the Order of the Phoenix taking small but still significant withdrawals for his brother and, of course, their precious _Order_. The Goblins didn't care about it being a vault of an Azkaban escapee because they didn't care about wizarding matters. As long as there was a key to the vaults.

The Blacks (not even the cheerful and fun-loving Uncle Alphie) weren't _that_ irresponsible, even the least protected vaults had some safety nets. In Sirius' vault's case though (as Kreacher informed him), it was probably a weak "Nobody will take anything out without the owner's permission" instead of dragons and hexes and curses.

Sirius, in contrast to the rest of the family, _was_ possibly that irresponsible, what with him being fresh out of his twelve years stint in Azkaban, mind vulnerable from the Dementors, the fact that he was an innocent man and was betrayed by one of his closest friend and then abandoned by the rest. He wasn't really in the right place, Regulus knew that he would have needed healers and he doubted aby such help was offered to his elder brother. Maybe the Order preferred him mad, they could take his money, live in his house, _use_ him for their own purposes and discard him when he stopped being useful. All because Sirius was incapable of telling them _'no'_.

And while Regulus wasn't close with his brother ever since the latter's first year at Hogwarts, he still felt a burning indignation at the thought of those Order members simply using his brother like that. It was a hollow feeling, too little too late, but still ugly and still _there_.

He shook these thoughts of Sirius away.

A grimace was seemingly permanently etched onto his face when he got to his room and collapsed on the bed. He did not enjoy the thought of having to eat the cake the next day but he enjoyed having to tell off Kreacher even less, especially if what he thought about the elf's state was true.

He clenched his fists, biting back tears. How undignified, he thought as he felt a tear slip anyway and dashed it away with a sleeve.

* * *

...

* * *

He nailed on a smile to his face for his birthday and readied himself to face the day. He dressed himself appropriately, in a suit, as every other day, casual didn't exist in the house. It was always robes, eventually a somber dress or a suit. And even though it was only Regulus (and Kreacher), the paintings were still there. More importantly, his _mother's_ portrait was still there, and she would find a way to make him feel sorry and humiliated even from her grave (or, well, _canvas_ ).

So there he was, eating a traditional English breakfast and drinking his mother's favorite tea. This... was starting to really scare him. Also, bother, but that was more his irritation and indignation speaking because _how could Kreacher forget that Regulus liked Earl Grey in the mornings?_ It would have been treated as sacrilege, back when the rest of the House of Black was still around. Kreacher would have been shot with a cutting hex right where he stood a long time ago.

He never liked chamomile but he chugged it down like it was going out of style, with a smile permanently fixed on his face. He popped a few grapes ( _Sirius_ never liked grapes, Regulus was pretty impartial to them himself and _was he ever going to stop looking into this so much, was he going to examine every food Kreacher brought him from now on because it was turning out to be pretty exhausting_ ) into his mouth as well.

He let out a satisfied sigh anyway, leaning back in his chair and still downing that awful tea.

* * *

...

* * *

Later on, he moved to the living room to check in on the red octopus. It traditionally disturbed him with its intelligence when it waved one tentacle at him and attempted to climb out of the tank, presumably to reach him.

He waved back frantically and shouted, "Stay _right_ there, please!" though and that seemed to somewhat settle it. _Although_ , it looked fairly offended. And well, offense looked _weird_ on an octopus but there it was, not looking at Regulus again and swimming as far away from him as possible, even pointedly turning away from the room. Which was just as well because Regulus didn't _want_ it anywhere close to him anyway. Not that he himself was close, sitting a fair distance away from the gigantic aquarium, which was taking a fair amount of the wall next to the windows.

He figured out some time ago that the octopus was some kind of familiar. He grimaced, it was, also, _obviously_ , his. If it wasn't, it wouldn't be so calm and would rather be trying to get back to its master. It _could_ be a spy but... He looked at the red form with suspicion and shook his head after a few seconds of it ignoring his stare, the wards around Grimmauld Place were old and decayed back before he got to renew them and put the house under a Fidelus, but they still worked. They would have alerted him if there was someone who could or wished to cause harm to the Head of the House when he first brought the Familiar here. They would have downright annihilated the octopus when he renewed them.

So he was good.

Besides, despite feeling disgust for the creepy creature, he also felt some kind of fascination and bond towards it.

He saw something black in the corner of his vision and looked up, to where the octopus has let out ink, turning the water in the tank a murky dark colour and sparing him a seemingly near _challenging_ glance. He sighed with a grimace, maybe he didn't feel a special bond with the thing after all.

* * *

...


End file.
